.  JJ^C  K,  C  RAWFORD. 


THE 


POET    SCOUT 


A  BOOK  OF  SONG  AND  STOUT. 


BY 

CAPTAIN    JACK    CRAWFORD, 

(Late  Chief  of  Scouts,  U.  S.  Army.) 


FUNK   &  WAGNALLS  : 

NEW   YORK  I  LONDON  : 

J_QQ(J. 

10-12  DEX  STREET.  44  FLEET  STREET. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1886,  by 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Llfer£riJ;n  of  Crfngrefcs^  Washington,  D.  C. 


Registered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England. 


PBEFACE. 


IK  the  publication  of  the  sketches  and  poems  in  the  follow 
ing  pages  I  have  no  thought  of  grasping  literary  or  poetical 
distinction.  They  are  the  crude,  unpolished  offspring  of  my 
idle  hours — wandering  thoughts  which  came  to  me  on  the 
lonely  trail  and  in  the  bivouac  and  camp.  They  were  written 
with  no  studied  effort,  but  are  the  spontaneous  bubblings  from 
a  heart  whose  springs  of  poesy  and  poetic  thought  were  opened 
by  the  hand  of  Nature  amid  her  roughest  scenes.  In  the  selec 
tions  herein  produced  many  past  incidents  of  an  adventurous 
life  have  reproduced  themselves  on  the  memory,  and  taken  the 
shape  of  verse.  That  they  are  crude  and  rough  and  lack  the 
polished  finish  of  the  droppings  from  more  gifted  pens,  I  freely 
admit,  and  I  would  therefore  beg  the  critics  to  spare  them. 

I  have  never  figured  as  a  hero  of  fiction  or  dime  novels,  and 
have  refused  to  allow  my  name  to  be  used  in  connection  with 
that  kind  of  literature  ;  hence  I  come  before  you  with  my  "  Poet 
Scout"  in  a  measure  unheralded.  I  had  a  Christian  mother, 
my  earliest  recollection  of  whom  was  kneeling  at  her  side, 
praying  God  to  save  a  wayward  father  and  husband.  That 
mother  taught  me  to  speak  the  truth  when  a  child,  and  I  have 
tried  to  follow  her  early  teachings  in  that  respect.  It  would 
require  a  much  larger  book  than  this  to  tell  the  story  of  my 
life  and  the  sufferings  of  one  of  God's  good  angels — my 
mother.  To  her  I  owe  everything — truth,  honor,  sobriety, 

M41942 


11  PREFACE. 

and  even  my  very  life.  Her  spirit  seems  to  linger  near  me 
always  ;  she  has  been  my  guardian  angel.  In  the  camp,  the 
cabin,  the  field,  and  the  hospital,  on  the  lonely  trail,  hundreds 
of  miles  from  civilization,  in  the  pine-clad  hills  and  lonely 
canons,  I  have  heard  in  the  moaning  night  winds  and  in  the 
murmuring  streamlets 

The  voice  of  my  angel  mother 
Whispering  soft  and  low. 

And  these  sacred  thoughts  have  made  me  forget  at  times 
that  there  was  danger  in  my  pathway.  Xor  will  I  ever 

forget 

The  day  that  we  parted,  mother  and  I, 

Never  on  earth  to  meet  again  ; 
She  to  a  happier  home  on  high, 
1  a  poor  wanderer  over  the  plain. 

That  day  was  perhaps  the  greatest  epoch  in  my  life.  Kneel 
ing  by  her  bedside,  with  one  hand  clasped  in  mine,  the  other 
resting  upon  my  head,  she  whispered  :  "  My  boy,  you  know 
your  mother  loves  you.  Will  you  give  me  a  promise,  that  I 
may  take  it  up  to  heaven  ?"  "  Yes,  yes,  mother  ;  I  will  prom 
ise  you  anything."  "Johnny,  my  son,  I  am  dying,"  said 
she  ;  "promise  me  you  will  never  drink  intoxicants,  and  then 
it  will  not  be  so  hard  to  leave  this  world."  Dear  reader,  need 
I  tell  you  that  I  promised  "  Yes  ;"  and  whenever  I  am  asked 
to  drink,  that  scene  comes  up  before  me,  and  I  am  safe. 

With  these  few  words  I  launch  my  little  craft  upon  the 
great  sea  of  literature,  trusting  that  it  may  sail  smoothly  and 
weather  every  gale. 

JOHN  WALLACE  CRAWFORD. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE i 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 5 

MUSTERED  OUT ..     19 

THE  HEROES  DEPARTED 20 

THE  MINER'S  HOME 23 

RATTLIN'  JOE'S  PRAYER 23 

THE  TENDERFOOT 27 

LITTLE  ONES  PRAYING  AT  HOME 28 

BALD  MOUNTAIN 29 

THE  MOUNTAIN  BOY'S  LETTER 31 

NOTES  IN  A  CAMP-MEETING 32 

DREAMING  OF  MOTHER ." 33 

CALIFORNIA  JOE  AND  THE  GIRL  TRAPPER 36 

YOU  ARE  WANTED  AT  HOME 45 

TRUTH 46 

THE  HAPPY-GO-LUCKY  TRAMP 47 

OUR  PROSPECT ' 49 

WILD  BILL'S  GRAVE 49 

"HE  DIED  FOR  ME'\ 52 

A  MOUNTAIN  GIRL'S  LETTER 55 

TO  MRS.  I.  P.  JENKS 58 

SOMEBODY 60 

THE  BURIAL  OF  WILD  BILL 61 

I'M  SAD  TO-NIGHT 63 

NATURE'S  TREASURES 65 

MY  MOUNTAIN  HOME 67 

SPRING  IN  THE  BLACK  HILLS 68 

THE  WELCOME  HOME 70 

HOOD'S  CHILDREN 71 

SOMEDAY 73 

ONLY  A  MINER  KILLED 74 

WE  MEET  AGAIN 75 

MY  LITTLE  NEW  LOG  CABIN  IN  THE  HILLS ...  77 

FAREWELL,  OLD  CABIN  HOME 78 

IT'S  ONLY  A  DIME  81 

NEW  YEAR'S  DAY  IN  THE  BLACK  HILLS 82 

THE  RUINED  VIRGINIA 83 

IRENE  IS  DEAD 85 

AMONG  THE  PEAKS... 87 

FAREWELL  TO  OUR  CHIEF 88 

DEATH  OF  LITTLE  KIT 90 

UNDER  THE  SNOW 92 

THE  DYING  SCOUT 94 

PERHAPS 96 

SANDY'S  REVENGE  98 

CHRISTMAS  DAY  IN  THE  BLACK  HILLS  100 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  OLD  TRAPPER'S  RELIGION 101 

THE  SCOUT'S  REQUEST  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE .104 

THE  DEATH  OF  CUSTER 106 

COMRADE,  WHY  THIS  LOOK  OF  SADNESS  ? 108 

BY  THE  LAKE 110 

GOD  BLESS  YE,  GENER'L  CUSTER 112 

NEVER  GIVE  UP  THE  SHIP 113 

MUSING 115 

AN  EPITAPH  ON  WILD  BILL 117 

GRIZZLY  JAKE 118 

BIRDS  OF  THE  HUDSON  BAY 121 

MY  IDEAS 122 

THE  PROSPECTOR'S  SOLILOQUY 123 

THE  MIXER'S  DREAM— XMAS  EVE 124 

OUR  NUGGET 128 

BUFFALO  CHIPS,  THE  SCOUT 130 

TO  JAMES  G.  FAIR 132 

CUSTER 133 

GOOD-BY 185 

THE  FIRST  THAT  DIED 136 

THOSE  EYES 137 

THE  PICNIC  BY  THE  BROOK 138 

AFTER  TAPS , 139 

KIT  CARSON 140 

TO  CHARLEY 141 

ODE  TO  CARIBOO  FRIENDS 142 

OUR  "  JACK  " 143 

UNDER  THE  SOD 145 

THE  OLD  MINER 146 

MY  OWN  MOUNTAIN  TREE 147 

MOTHER'S  PRAYERS 148 

"CORPORAL  BILL" 150 

THE  VETERAN  AND  HIS  GRANDSON 153 

LILLIE    156 

MY  BIRTHDAY .   ...157 

LITTLE  REVILEE 158 

DECORATION  DAY 160 

OUR  MARTYRED  DEAD ,  163 

OFF  TO  THE  PICNIC 165 

CATO'S  IDEAS 166 

MY  HERO 1 67 

THE  GRAVE  OF  MY  MOTHER 171 

NORA  LEE  172 

OUR  FIRST  REUNION  AND  CAMP  FIRE 173 

THE  RANGERS'  RETREAT... 176 

THE  POOR  MAN'S  SOLILOQUY 177 

THE  FIRST  FLOWER  OF  MAY  180 

FAREWELL...  181 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

BY  LEIGH  IRVINE. 

A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood 

The  surging  sea  outweighs. — EMERSON. 

SINCE  the  earliest  eras  of  myth  and  fable  all  races  have  paid  homage  to 
heroism.  There  is  in  the  constitution  of  man  a  tendency  to  hero-worship,  and 
power  always  commands  a  certain  reverence.  We  never  tire  of  believing  in  the 
resources  of  Nature  and  in  the  hidden  possibilities  of  man  ;  hence  we  are  ever 
encouraged  to  learn  of  any  unusual  feats  of  our  fellow-men.  Revelations 
of  virtue,  courage,  skill,  and  remarkable  powers  of  endurance  are  always  received 
with  wonder  and  pleasure,  for  they  help  to  build  in  the  mind  a  hope.  They  lead 
us  to  believe  that  "  what  man  has  done  man  can  do,"  and  to  trust  in  the  benefi 
cence  of  Nature.  Almost  any  stories  of  the  exploits  of  men  are  interesting  if 
true,  provided  they  give  us  a  new  insight  into  the  history  of  the  human  mind. 
However  humble  the  actor  or  rugged  the  scene  in  which  he  is  depicted,  it  is 
in  a  certain  sense  MAN  acting  and  living  under  the  varied  circumstances  of  Ihe 
age  and  country  in  which  the  special  agent  is  stationed. 

It  is  wonderful  what  a  fascination  is  inwoven  with  stories  of  life  in  the  far 
West!  Tales  of  frontier  times  charm  us*  and  hold  our  attention  even  as  did  the 
legends  and  Arabian  fictions  of  boyhood  days.  The  very  landscapes  in  the 
country  of  the  setting  sun  are  vast  and  awe-inspiring,  and  they  seem  to  com 
municate  to  man  somewhat  of  their  own  broad  proportions.  It  has  been  ihe 
universal  conclusion  of  careful  observers  that  men  who  go  from  old  settle 
ments  in  the  East  to  the  mining  regions  or  plains  of  the  West  become  broad- 
minded,  good-natured,  and  liberal  if  there  were  any  such  tendencies  in  their 
characters.  The  Western  man  is  noticeable  for  his  frankness  and  generosity  ; 
and  even  though  his  manner  be  strikingly  unconventional  there  is  seldom  a 
question  that  his  motive  has  origin  in  good-fellowship.  Who  that  has  ever 
known  a  genuine  frontiersman  of  '49  can  forget  his  open  hospitality?  In 


VI  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

his  presence  one  feels  that  all  is  clear  as  the  diamond  mornings  of  June. 
There  is  no  need  of  condescension  or  apology  for  anything.  The  lugged  cbild 
of  the  mountains  stands  firmly  on  his  feet,  as  much  as  to  say  that  all  men  exist 
by  inalienable  right.  Hypocrisy,  greed,  stinginess,  and  all  petty  quibbling  are 
forgotten.  His  smallest  measure  of  value  for  years  was  four  or  five  times  what 
we  pay  for  a  loaf  of  bread  or  a  gluss  of  beer,  and  his  "dust"  is  divided  with 
a  generosity  that  puts  to  shame  the  liberality  we  have  known  in  other  lands. 
I  have  never  looked  upon  these  Atlantean-shouldered  giants  of  the  new  West 
without  feeling  in  a  certain  sense  that  they  grew  thus  rich  in  physical  powers 
and  cleverness  from  contemplating  the  bounty  of  Nature,  the  plentitulness  of 
landscape,  the  wastes  of  mountains  and  plains.  A  certain  grandeur  attaches  even 
to  the  aiched  sky  and  silent  stars  when  beheld  from  high  mountains  or  viewed 
from  the  depths  of  grand  canons  walled  with  sublime  rocks  and  mountains 
crowned  with  peaks  of  perennial  snow.  Buckle's  theory  that  the  vast  moun 
tains  of  Asia  make  the  inhabitants  superstitious  and  cowardly  may  be  true  ;  but 
the  "  Rockies"  and  Sierras  of  the  American  continent  seem  to  inspire  men 
with  courage  and  renewed  confidence  in  the  strength  of  manhood.  The  same 
statement  is  true  of  the  boundless  plains  of  the  West.  The  cow-boy  stands  as  a 
perpetual  contradiction  to  any  philosophy  which  teaches  that  the  vastness  of 
Nature  makes  man  believe  in  his  own  insignificance.  He  has  never  had  fny 
misgivings  as  to  hid  right  to  life,  liberty,  and  happiness  after  his  own  fashion. 

It  is  comparatively  seldom  that  one  meets  a  real  hero  in  the  Wes-t,  one 
entitled  in  any  high  and  philosophic  sense  to  be  clashed  with  men  of  extraordinary 
powers.  There  are  many  to  whom  is  due  the  credit  of  personal  intrepidity,  for 
their  valor  goes  without  question.  They  are  bold  in  danger  and  fearless  in  trie 
presence  of  mortal  foes.  Like  the  old  Spartan  gladiator?,  who  were  willing  to 
face  man  or  beast  in  the  arena  of  bloody  combat,  they  do  not  fear  sanguinary 
conflicts,  and  their  courage  remains  unabated  to  the  end.  But  physical  valor 
alone  is  not  the  full  measure  of  heroism.  Life  is  more  than  a  series  of  conflicts, 
and  its  true  rewards  do  not  rest  purely  on  a  physical  basis.  The  greatest 
man,  the  most  heroic  man,  must  lead  alife  which  spans  a  wider  field  than  animal 
endurance  or  good-fellowship.  The  true  hero  does  not  forget  that  man  has 
an  intellectual  and  a  moral  side  in  his  nature.  The  old  heroes  were  supposed 
to  be  children  of  the  gods,  and  the  go^s  were  not  of  the  flesh,  but  of  the  mind 
or  spirit.  "  The  gods  of  fable  are  the  shining  moments  of  great  men."  Nothing 
is  truer  than  that  the  mind  is  in  a  h'gh  degree  the  measure  of  the  man.  The 
highest  unit  is,  therefore,  one  that  deals  not  alone  with  acts  of  physical  bravery, 
but  with  the  mental  life  as  well. 

Men  who  have  the  courage  to  think  for  themselves  are  rare,  and  those  whose 
thoughts  are  morally  pure  and  clear  with  the  light  of  truth  are  rarer  still. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  tasks  to  think,  and  next  to  this  is  to  give  a 
thought  skilful  expression,  the  clothing  of  clear  language.  Then  how  are  we  to 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  Vll 

estimate  a  man  who,  amid  the  conflicts  of  Indian  warfare  and  the  surroundings 
of  miners'  camps,  not  only  acquired  a  fair  education,  but  learned  to  cummuue 
with  Nature  and  long  for  the  inspiration  of  her  divine  afflatus?  Has  he  not 
interesting  elements  iu  his  mental  constitution,  and  such  a  faithfulness  to  the 
true  ideals  of  life  as  to  attract  admiration  ?  This  higher  heroism  demands  a  finer 
feeling  and  rarer  powers  than  the  simple  conquests  due  to  bone,  muscle, 
dapper  exploits,  and  animal  courage.  If  we  find  in  one  individual  the  com 
bined  beauties  of  an  active  mind,  a  brave  spirit  and  great  physical  courage,  he 
becomes  exceedingly  interesting.  We  long  to  know  him,  to  see  and  feel  his 
personality.  Such  a  man  is  Captain  J.  W.  Crawford,  familiarly  known  as 
"Captain  Jack."  His  ambition  for  self  culture  never  flagged  for  a  moment, 
whether  on  the  soldier's  march  or  by  the  trapper's  lonely  fireside. 

Captain  Crawford's  character  is  unique,  and  his  life  is  full  of  incident.  He  is  a 
rare  example  of  a  brave  frontiersman,  with  a  fine  mind  and  a  tender  heart. 
Border  life  seems  to  have  made  him  gentle  rather  than  to  have  hardened  him, 
while  the  grandeur  of  nature  moved  him  to  write  poetry.  At  first  glance  it  seems 
that  there  is  an  incompatibility  between  an  Indian  scout  and  a  poet,  and  many 
persons  are  loath  to  believe  that  a  man  whose  life  was  spent  in  frontier  pursuits 
and  Indian  warfare  can  write  readable  poetry.  It  was,  however,  the  theory  of 
Macaulay  that  poets  thrived  in  early  ages,  and  that  civilization  is  necessarily  de 
structive  of  bards.  It'  this  ia  true,  there  is  something  worthy  of  consideration 
in  the  fact  that  the  great  West  more  nearly  fulfils  the  concisions  named  by 
Macau'ay  as  being  favorable  to  the  production  of  poetry  than  any  other  part  of 
the  American  continent.  The  primeval  forests,  the  "  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad," 
and  the  wealth  of  vast  wastes  in  nature  combine  to  give  to  minds  of  poetic  ten 
dencies  that  fulness  of  imagination  and  love  of  the  beautiful  which  the  complex 
ities  of  civilization  in  crowded  cities  render  in  a  manner  impossible.  If  there  is 
any  music  in  a  man's  soul,  it  will  find  expression  amid  the  primal  scenes  of  the 
lands  where  Captain  Crawfoid  spent  many  years  of  his  life, hearing  voices  in 
the  air  "  as  of  nymphs  that  haunt  the  mountain  summits  and  the  river  founts,  and 
the  moist,  grassy  meadows."  The  power  of  feeling  the  impressions  made  by  Na 
ture  on  the  mind  and  heart  is  one  of  the  first  requisites  of  the  poet.  A  bioad, 
good-hearted  man,  whose  life  leads  in  rugged  paths,  learns  to  know  the  value  of 
fritndship  and  to  recognize  true  manhood  at  a  glance.  In  the  same  surroundings 
he  becomes  an  expert  at  detec'ing  hypocrisy.  Many  of  the  poet  scout's  ballads 
celebrate  the  homely  virtues  of  every  day  life,  or  remove  from  deceit  its  hollow 
mask.  His  vocabulary  abounds  in  expressions  which  glorify  the  graces  of 
simple  manhood,  aud  for  this  reason  even  his  rudest  lines  of  dialect  imitation 
have  a  beauty  and  freshness  that  are  admirable.  Such  verses  readily  become  popu 
lar  with  the  masses,  and  nothing  is  more  frequent,  than  to  hear  some  of  his  lines 
familiarly  quoted  in  certain  parts  of  the  West  where  they  have  been  published. 
The  poem  entitled  "Rattlin'  Joe's  Prayer  "  has  long  been  a  favorite  selection  with 


Vlll  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

many  elocutionists  and  public  readers.  Though  it  is  one  of  the  roughest  poems 
he  has  written,  and  though  it  abounds  in  slang,  it  is  a  perfect  picture  of  the 
phase  of  life  with  which  it  deals.  Where  is  a  verse  that  gives  a  more  satisfac 
tory  glimpse  into  the  rude  life  of  a  miner  than  the  following? 

"I'm  lost  on  the  rules  o'  jer  game,  but  I'll  ax 

Fur  a  seat  fur  him  back  o'  yer  throne. 
And  I'll  bet  my  whole  stack  that  the  boy'll  behave, 
If  yer  angels  jist  lets  him  alone." 

A  striking  example  from  a  poem  which  abounds  in  the  lessons  of  justice,  and 
which  contains  throughout  a  commendable  philosophy,  is  found  in  the  first 
verse  of  "Hood's  Children,''  a  poem  first  read  at  a  G.  A.  R.  entertainment  for 
their  benefit  in  San  Francisc6.  The  sentence  is  as  follows : 

"Dear  comrades  and  friend  sin  the  golden  land, 

You  may  say  I'm  rough,  you  may  call  me  wild, 
But  I've  got  a  heart  and  a  willing  hand 
To  feel  and  to  work  for  a  soldier's  child." 

A  verse  from  a  little  poem  suggested  by  a  New  York  newsboy's  contribution 
to  the  Grant  monument  fuud  is  also  in  point : 

"  And,  boys,  who  knows,  though  his  dad  is  dead, 

This  peer  of  your  snob  galoots 
May  be  carving  his  way  to  the  nation's  head, 
Selling  papers  and  blacking  boots." 

No  one  has  ever  claimed  that  any  of  Captain  Crawford's  poetry  is  comparable 
to  the  transcendental  musings  of  an  Emerson  or  the  classic  songs  of  Tennys>on 
or  Holmes;  but  there  is  in  them  a  simple  melody  and  a  sentiment  ever  dear  to 
the  masses  of  mankind.  Burns  and  Moore  wrote  on  themes  of  no  wider  scope  than 
those  embraced  withmthe  catalogue  of  subjects  essayed  by  Captain  Crawford. 
In  his  most  unfinished  songs  there  is  often  a  vigor,  freshness,  and  originality 
which  hold  the  attention,  even  if  they  do  violence  to  the  rhetoric  of  the  reader. 
As  a  writer  in  the  New  York  Herald  a  few  years  ago  said :  "  If  his  verses  had 
no  other  merit,  they  might  be  commended  to  the  other  Western  dialect 
poets  as  a  genuine  fount  of  raw  material  for  them  to  draw  from.''  The  collection 
is  a  kind  of  kaleidoscope,  into  which  each  reader  must  look  for  himself  and  then 
nidge  whether  the  colors  and  arrangement  of  colors  are  good.  It  must  never  be 
forgotten  that  every  line  he  ever  wrote  was  produced  under  the  disadvantages 
of  a  fragmentary  education,  gained  during  the  storms  and  confl  cts  of  adult  life. 
Considering  him  as  a  backwoodMnan,  a  man  without  the  advantages  of  culture, 
whose  mature  life  has  been  passed  mainly  upon  the  cheerless  plains,  in  contest 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  IX 

with  savages  and  in  the  society  of  the  Western  barrack-ronm  and  the  trapper's 
hut.  he  is  a  wonderful  personage.  Under  different  training  the  rough  diamond 
of  his  nature  would  have  sparkled  in  the  light  of  the  literary  world. 

While  considering  this  phase  of  the  man's  life,  it  may  be  of  interest  to  many 
persons  to  know  something  of  his  methods  in  writing.  An  anonymous  writer  in 
the  Grand  Army  Magazine  for  March,  1883,  says  that  he  is  at  times  a  very  rapid 
composer.  The  following  incident  is  cited  : 

"I  asked  Jack  to  return  to  town  with  me  and  talk  over  old  times.  On  our 
arrival  at  Chloride,  and  after  the  usual  questions  as  to  old  comrades  had  been 
answered,  I  said : 

"'Well,  J*ck,  I  understand  you  have  published  a  book  of  your  poetry. 
I'll  fall  you  what  I  wish  you  would  do  for  me  as  a  favor:  just  prove  to  these 
friends  of  mine  around  here  that  you  can  wri»e.  They  are  not  skeptical,  yet 
I  wou'd  like  to  show  them  what  you  can  do,  and  how  quick  you  can  do  it.' 

"Jack  replied  :  'All  right;  give  me  a  subject,  and  I'll  write  you  a  verse  or 
two ' 

"Some  one  of  our  friends  replipd  :  '  Give  us  a  song,  with  a  regular  miner's 
chorus.' 

"  I  won't  swear  to  it,  but  this  I  will  say,  as  I  had  no  watch,  that  in  fifteen 
minutes  Jack  handed  me  a  poem." 

The  writer  then  describes  how  the  performance  astonished  the  company.  The 
following  two  verses  from  that  extemporaneous  effort  may  serve  to  give  the 
reader  some  sort  of  insight  into  the  man  and  his  methods  : 

"  Hear  the  music  of  the  hammer, 

As  it  bounds  from  rock  and  drill; 
See  the  ore  piled  near  the  windlass 

As  it  glistens  on  the  hill; 
Hear  the  'giant'  cannonading, 

Throwing  out  its  precious  load, 
And  the  merry  song  at  evening 

In  the  miner's  log  abode. 

"  There's  a  vein  of  love  and  pathos 

In  each  hardy  miner's  breast, 
And  the  thoughts  of  home  and  lov'd  ones, 

As  he  Hys  him  down  to  rest, 
Are  as  sweet  to  him — though  humble — 

As  the  king  upon  his  throne, 
For  the  miner's  heart  oft  lingers 

With  the  loving  ones  at  home." 


X  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Being  introduced  to  a  beautiful  young  lady  in  1875  named  Frauke  Bailey,  she 
asked  Captain  Jack  to  write  an  acrostic  on  her  name,  and  in  less  than  two 
minutes  he  handed  her  the  following : 

"Fairest  flower,  didst  ever  mortal  eyes 
Regard  thee  with  a  more  enraptured  stare  ? 
Ah,  Miss,  in  thee  I  see  a  lovely  prize ; 
Nor  is  there  one  in  Eden  half  so  fair. 
Kings  might  long  to  kiss  and  e'en  caress  thee, 
Esteemed  by  all  the  good— God  bless  thee. 
But  I,  alas  !  an  uncouth,  rustic  cuss, 
And  little  schooled  to  etiquette  and  such, 
I  only  ask  thy  friendship  firm,  and  thus 
Look  upon  thee — a  friend — I  ask  not  much, 
Ever  to  dream  of  thee  when  all  alone, 
Your  form,  my  queen,  I'll  kneel  before  ihy  throne." 

These  are  but  two  examples  in  hundreds  lhat  might  be  given  to  show  how  this 
original  man  feels,  thinks,  and  writes.  Let  these  illustrations  suffice.  Now 
for  the  outward  man  as  known  to  the  crowds  of  friends  who  meet  him  in  every 
day  life— the  true  friend,  the  jo'ly  companion. 

Captain  Crawford's  genealogy  is  traceab'e  to  a  Scotch  or'gin.  John  A. 
Crawford,  the  poet  scout's  father,  led  rather  an  eventful  life.  He  was  born 
near  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  in  1816.  When  fourteen  years  old  he  entered  a 
tailoring  establishment  at  Glasgow,  and  served  seven  years  as  an  apprentice, 
and  then  went  to  London  to  finish  his  trade.  After  two  years  he  returned  to 
Glasgow.  Here  he  nude  political  speeches,  advocated  a  free  form  of  govern 
ment,  and  was  banished,  a  price  being  put  on  his  head.  He  fled  and  hid  in  Rob 
Roy's  cave,  where  he  was  fed  for  six  weeks  by  an  old  Scotch  lady  called 
Granny  McGregor,  when  a  fishing-smack  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  to  the 
north  coast  of  Ireland.  Here  he  married  Susie  Wallace,  the  daughter  of  another 
refugee,  and  a  descendant  of  Sir  William,  the  Scotch  chief.  The  elder  Crawford 
was  a  fine  tailor,  a  jolly  companion,  and  a  good  elocutionist  and  «reciter  of 
Scotch  selections.  He  was  a  temperate  man  until  he  married,  when  it  seems 
he  acquired  a  taste  for  strong  drink.  To  escape  from  dissolute  associates,  he 
sailed  for  America  in  1854,  leaving  his  wife  and  five  children,  of  whom  Jack  was 
the  third,  in  Ireland.  For  four  years  the  mother  struggled  to  support  them, 
receiving  little  assistance  from  her  husband.  Then  she  left  her  children  with 
an  uncle,  James  Wallace,  and  came  to  America,  joining  her  husband  at  Miners- 
ville,  Pa.  He  promised  to  reform,  and  partly  did  so.  The  children  were  sent  for, 
and  came  to  Pennsylvania  but  the  father  did  little  for  them,  and  the  boys  were 
oMiged  to  work  in  the  coal  mines.  Here,  at  the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion, 
we  find  Jack  picking  slate  at  a  coal  mine  at  $1.75  per  week.  His  father  was 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XI 

one  of  the  first  men  to  respond  to  the  original  call  for  75,000  volunteers.  He 
served  gallantly  under  Captain  George  Lawrence,  with  ihe  Ringgolds.  He  was 
twice  badly  wounded,  once  at  Antietam  and  once  at  Cold  Harbor.  .Jack  soon 
ran  away,  and  enlisted  when  he  was  not  quite  sixteen  years  old  Governor  Curtin 
sent  him  home  twice  from  Harrisburgh,  because  he  was  young  and  small.  He 
made  a  third  attempt,  and  joined  the  48'h  Pennsylvania  volunteers,  getting  fully 
into  the  war  in  time  to  be  twice  wounded,  first  at  Spottsylvama,  May  12th,  1864, 
and  then  at  Petersburg,  April  21,1865.  The  severest  wound  was  received  at 
Spottsylvania  Court-House  while  charging  the  confederate  works.  He  was 
carried  to  Washington  and  later  to  Saterlee  Hospital  at  West  Philadelphia. 
Here  it  was  that  he  learned  to  read  and  write  under  the  instruction  of  a  Sister 
of  Charity,  for  the  necessity  of  earning  a  living  for  his  mother  and  the  other 
members  of  the  family  had  deprived  him  of  ihe  advantage  of  schooling. 

His  father  died  very  shortly  after  the  war  from  the  effects  of  a  severe  wound 
in  the  head,  received  May  18th,  1864  Just  before  the  death  of  his  father  he 
was  called  upon  to  bear  the  stronger  bereavement  of  a  mother's  death  ;  but  be 
fore  she  died  she  asked  him  to  promise  never  to  drink.  This  story  is  best  told 
by  Captain  Crawford  himself.  In  a  letter  dated  February  26th,  1880,  addressed 
to  Colonel  Judson,  who  had  in  a  story  made  some  erroneous  statements  about 
him,  the  Captain  says: 

"I  desire  to  ask  a  particular  favor  of  you.  ...  In  some  of  your  stories  you 
make  me  say  I  promised  some  one  six  months  ago  that  I  would  not  drink, 
etc.  Now,  my  dear  Colonel,  here  is  where  you  touch  a  tender  point.  I  had  a 
sainted,  God-fearing,  and  sweet  mother,  to  whom  I  owe  everything.  No  one  but 
the  Almighty  knows  what  that  mother  suffered  for  me  and  all  her  children 
through  my  father's  intemperance.  When  she  was  dying  she  called  me  to  her 
bedside  and  asked  me  to  promise  her  I  would  never  drink  intoxicants ;  and 
although  my  lips  had  never  tasted  intoxicants  before,  on  my  knees,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  my  brothers,  sisters,  and  friends,  I  made  her  that  promise.  Colonel, 
as  God  is  my  judge,  I  have  faithfully  kept  it,  and  will  while  I  live  and  breathe." 

The  Captain  has  frequently  brought  such  men  as  Wild  Bill  to  tears  by  his 
pathetic  recital  of  this  incident  in  his  life.  Once  Wild  Bill  said,  after  hearing 
Jack  recite  a  poem  called  "Mother's  Prayers,"  which  is  based  on  that  promise, 
"God  bless  you,  Jack;  you  strike  a  tender  spot,  old  boy,  when  you  talk 
mother  that  way." 

Soon  after  his  mother's  death  Jack  became  anxious  to  try  his  fortunes  in  the 
West,  stories  of  which  had  reached  his  ears.  The  death  of  his  mother  fell  upon 
him  as  a  heavy  blow,  but  despondency  was  soon  drowned  in  the  ocean  of  hope 
that  opened  up  to  him.  The  future  seemed  rich,  and  its  pleasing  possibilities 
encouraged  him  to  work  like  a  hero.  He  obtained  a  letter  from  General  Hart- 


Xll  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

ranft,  which  he  subsequently  got  General  Sherman  to  indorse.  Armed  with 
this  and  similar  credentials,  the  young  man  started  West,  where  he  located,  and 
soon  gained  the  good-will  of  the  frontier  military.  He  soon  obtained  promo 
tion,  and  earned  the  reputation  of  being  a  bold,  honest,  aud  bkilful  scout.  He 
was  one  of  the  earliest  explorers  in  the  Black  Hills,  chief  of  the  pioneer  scouts, 
and  one  of  the  founders  of  Deadwood,  Ouster  City,  Crook,  Gayviile,  and  Spear- 
fish.  In  the  Indian  campaign  of  1876  he  was  second  in  the  command  of  General 
Crook's  scouts,  and  he  superseded  Buffalo  Bill  as  chief  on  August  24th  of  the 
same  year,  the  latter  having  resigned.  As  a  scout  his  record  has  been  signaHzed 
by  singular  acts  <  f  bravery.  He  knows  almost  every  foot  of  the  frontier  lands, 
and  he  is  fearless  in  the  presence  of  danger.  In  July,  1876,  in  response  to  a  tele 
gram,  he  rode  from  Medicine  Bow,  on  the  U.  P.  R.  R.,  to  Rosebud  and  Little  Big 
Horn,  in  the  Big  Horn  Mountains,  nearly  four  hundred  miles,  ihrough  a  country 
peopled  with  savage  Indians.  He  carried  the  New  York  Heralds  account  of  the 
battle  of  Slim  Buttes  to  Fort  Laramie — three  hundred  and  fifty  miles — in  less 
than  four  days.  For  this  he  received  in  all  $722.75. 

In  a  letter  of  introduction  given  to  Captain  Crawford,  in  1880,  by  Governor 
Perkins,  of  California,  the  Governor  said  :  "  He  is  known  as  '  Captain  Jack,'  a 
title  gained  by  his  devotion  and  loyalty  to  the  principles  of  justice,  patriotism, 
and  humanity." 

*  Captain  Jack  holds  credentials  entitling  him  to  correspond  for  some  of  the  best 
daily  papers  in  New  York.  His  letters  in  many  papers  have  for  years  attracted 
attention.  Besides  letters  he  has  written  several  sketches  for  magazines,  but  he 
abhors  sensational  notoriety.  He  has  often  appeared  in  public  as  a  lecturer  and 
reciter  of  his  own  poems,  always  wiih  great  success. 

The  following  life-like  portrait,  by  Edward  L.  Keyes,  late  lieutenant  of  the 
Fifth  U.  S.  Cavalry,  will  give  a  fair  idea  of  the  man  : 

"Being  in  New  Mexico  last  week,  and  having  a  day  to  spare,  I  decided 
to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  Fort  Craig,  which  place  1  had  not  sten  since 
I  camped  there  in  1875,  en  route  from  Arizona  to  the  Indian  Territory. 
Imagine  my  surprise  when  the  first  person  to  greet  me,  as  I  neared  the 
trader's  store,  was  my  old  friend  and  quondam  companion,  Jack  Crawford,  or 
'Captain  Jack,'  the  'Poet  Scout,'  as  he  is  now  called.  The  meeting  was  a 
pleasure  to  us  both.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  we  parted  in  the  Black  Hills 
in  1876,  at  the  close  of  the  Sitting  Bull  expedition,  I  to  return  to  my  post  and 
he  to  follow  a  fresher  trail  farther  to  the  south-west.  After  learning  that  be 
is  post  trader,  postmaster,  post-contractor,  etc.,  not  to  mention  his  cattle  and 
mining  interests,  he  made  me  understand  that  it  would  be  'bad  medicine' 
for  me  if  I  spread  my  blankets  outside  of  his  '  wickiupp,'  as  he  termed  bis 
domicile.  So  I  joyfully  accepted  bis  insinuating  invitation. 

"Perhaps  I  could  give  you  a  pen  portrait  of  the  celebrated  scout.     He  is  a 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  Xlll 

tall,  wiry-built  man,  with  a  nervous,  sensitive  face,  which  his  open,  frank  de 
meanor  dignifies  when  you  have  once  entered  into  conversation  with  him. 
His  manner  is  simple  and  easy,  entirely  free  from  affectation.  His  long,  light 
brown  hair  falls  below  his  shoulders,  and  a  mustache  and  goatee  of  the  same 
color  ornament  his  youthful  face.  A  large  light  felt  sombrero  crowns  his  head, 
and  his  body  is  covered  with  a  blue  s-hirt  with  wid^,  flowing  collar.  Buckskin 
trousers  with  fringed  sides  cover  his  long,  muscular  legs,  and  a  belt,  with  a 
1  persuader  '  attached,  usually  encirclts  his  waist.  He  is  thirty-eight  years  of  age, 
though  he  does  not  look  it.  He  was  chief  of  the  scouts  during  the  Sitting  Bull 
expedition,  in  which  I  took  part.  It  was  during  th''s  campa-gn  that  he  made  that 
daring  and  remarkable  ride,  carrying  dispatches  alone  fi  ur  hundred  m.les, 
through  the  midst  of  the  foe,  riding  at  night  and  hiding  in  the  chaparral  during 
the  day,  with  the  knowledge  that  if  his  horse  neighed  he  would  be  discovered, 
captured,  and  tortured. 

"We  spent  the  day  in  recounting  half-forgottt  n  events  of  the  '  ho^emeat' 
campaign,  and  again,  in  fancy,  roughing  it  from  the  Platte  to  the  Yellowstone, 
thence  across  the  Bad  Lands  to  the  Black  Hills.  One  incident  I  reculled  which 
caused  our  conversation  to  take  a  poetical  turn.  I  remembered  that  it  was  Jack 
Crawford  who,  while  we  lay  encamped  on  War  Bonnet  Creek,  Wyoming, 
sent  us  the  sad,  shocking  intelligence  of  the  gallant  Caster's  fate.  I  also 
remembered  that  soon  after  he  reached  our  camp  he  entered  my  tent,  and, 
throwing  himself  on  my  blankets,  produced  a  small  blank-book  from  his  pocket, 
in  which  he  at  once  began  writing.  Though  Jack  conversed  well,  his  cliirog- 
raphy  was  somewhat  peculiar.  He  h.  d  never  been  to  school  in  his  life,  and  atthe 
time  of  which  I  speak  writing  was  a  trail  which  he  had  only  lately  struck. 
Notwi  hstanding  this,  he  was  bus'ly  engaged  jotting  down  his  thoughts.  And 
at  last  I  asked  him  what  he  was  doing.  '  Wri'ing  some  versus  on  the  death  of 
Custer,'  was  his  reply.  Remembering  all  this  as  though  it  had  occurred  the 
day  before,  I  asked  him  if  his  now  famous  poem  on  that  brave  cavalry  officer's 
tragic  death  was  the  result  of  that  morning's  inspiration.  I  learned  that  it  was." 

But  to  go  farther  is  useless.  In  a  limited  sketch  there  can  be  no  complete 
picture  of  such  a  man.  At  best  there  is  but  an  occasional  glance,  in  broken 
outline,  at  the  real  man.  To  be  properly  estimated  with  his  faults,  to  which 
all  flesh  is  heir,  and  with  those  qualities  which  delight  thousands  who  under 
stand  him,  he  must  be  known.  Through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  the 
changes  of  time  and  place,  no  man  can  say  he  ever  forgot  a  friend.  He  holds  to 
the  saying  of  Henry  Clay,  that  no  new  friends  can  take  the  place  of  those  we  have 
long  'tried  and  loved.'  H;s  soc  al  qualit;es  charm  large  circles  of  admirer?,  who 
are  ever  anxious  to  meet  him,  while  his  stories  of  camp  and  fie'd,  and  his  inex 
haustible  fund  of  original  Western  anecdotes,  enrich  his  earnest  conversation  in 
a  manner  singularly  pleasing  and  original. 


* 


A  CHAPTER   FOR  BOYS. 


I  WISH  I  could  sit  down  and  take  every  dime-novel-reading  little  boy  in 
America  by  the  hand  and  point  out  to  him  the  destination  he  will  reach 
if  he  persists  in  reading  the  vile  trash  which  depicts  such  Indian  scenes 
as  never  occurred,  and  points  out  "  blood-and-thunder"  heroes  who 
never  lived,  and  of  such  a  type  as  were  never  heard  of  in  the  West.  If 
I  had  the  power  I  would  catch  every  dime-novel  publisher  in  America 
and  confine  him  in  prison  for  life,  where  he  could  not  pursue  his  crimi 
nal  work— for  it  is  criminal — and  lead  so  many  bright  boj's  to  ruin  and 
disgrace.  My  name  has  never  yet  figured  in  one  of  these  trash 3*  con 
cerns  with  my  consent,  although  I  have  been  offered  quite  large  sums 
by  publishers  to  allow  my  name  to  be  used  as  the  author  of  a  Western 
story  which  they  would  have  written  by  another,  just  as  they  do  with 
other  Western  characters  whom  I  could  name.  It  is  a  great  trick  on  the 
part  of  publishers  to  endeavor  to  secure  the  names  of  noted  scouts, 
hunters,  and  actors  as  authors  of  the  most  ridiculous  trash  that  was  ever 
printed,  and  I  regret  to  say  that  some  Western  men  are  so  foolish  as  to 
bite  at  their  glittering  bait.  But  a  few  weeks  since  in  a  New  York  pub 
lication  I  was  pained  and  mortified  to  see  an  old  picture  of  myself,  pub 
lished  with  others,  with  a  flash  story,  and  labelled,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
"  Broncho  Billy." 

The  first  desire  of  the  average  boy  after  reading  a  story  of  Western 
adventure  is  to  go  "  out  West  and  kill  Indians."  To  a  Western  man 
this  desire  is  so  absurd  and  ridiculous  as  to  be  really  laughable.  Poor 
little  innocent  dupes  !  Of  the  many  boys  who  have  abandoned  their 
homes  to  exterminate  Indians  not  one  in  a  thousand  ever  reached  the 


;    .';,     A,'  CHAPTER   FOR   BOYS. 

Missouri  River,  and  those  who  did  get  beyond  that  stream  invariably 
went  to  work  in  kitchens  of  hotels  washing  dishes,  or  served  as  lackeys 
in  some  subordinate  position  until  their  parents  could  send  for  them. 
The  poor,  blinded  boys  do  not  realize  that  to  be  efficient  in  the  field  as 
a  scout  a  man  must  have  lived  in  the  West  for  many  years  ;  must  be  fami 
liar  with  every  foot  of  the  country,  and  acquainted  with  the  Indians  and 
their  haunts  and  customs.  Neither  do  they  cast  a  thought  upon  the 
hardships  and  privations  of  the  life  of  a  scout  :  exposed  to  piercing 
cold  ;  driving,  blinding  snow  storms  ;  drenching  rains  ;  starvation  for 
days  at  a  time  ;  intensest  heat  and  tongues  parched  for  water  in  sum 
mer  ;  always  in  danger  of  death  and  mutilation  at  the  hands  of  an 
invisible  and  cruel  foe — these  and  a  thousand  other  hardships  always 
fall  to  the  lot  of  a  scout  on  the  frontier.  The  men  who  follow  such  a 
life  do  not  do  it  so  much  from  a  love  of  adventure  as  from  a  love  of  the 
big  silver  dollars  which  they  receive  in  payment  for  their  services. 

Many  of  the  young  men  in  the  penitentiaries  of  the  Western  States 
and  Territories  assert  unqualifiedly  that  they  were  brought  to  their 
present  shame  and  disgrace  through  reading  dime  novels.  They  longed 
to  be  heroes  or  highwaymen  or  noted  robbers,  and  their  first  attempt 
at  crime  invariably  led  to  their  imprisonment  for  a  long  term. 

Boys,  take  the  earnest  advice  of  a  frontiersman,  and  stay  at  home.  To 
attempt  to  gain  heroism  by  following  the  course  pointed  out  by  the  pub 
lishers  of  vile  novels  will  lead  you  to  disgrace  and  death,  just  as  surely  as 
the  night  follows  the  declining  day.  Learn  some  good  trade  or  profes 
sion,  and  stick  to  it,  and  you  will  grow  up  beloved  and  honored  by  all 
who  know  you,  and  your  names  may  some  day  be  written  high  up  on  the 
glittering  scroll  of  fame.  Future  Presidents  of  these  great  United  States 
are  now  but  boys,  and  you  may  be  one  of  them,  little  reader,  if  you  will 
apply  yourself  to  study,  acquire  the  principles  of  truth  and  manhood, 
and  endeavor  to  fit  yourself  for  the  position.  Try  it,  little  friend,  and 
avoid  those  damnable  dime  novels  as  you  would  a  venomous,  hideous 
rattlesnake.  They  are  more  dangerous. 


"MUSTEKED  OUT." 

The    following  impromptu   lines   are   from    the    pen  of   Captain   "Jack 
Crawford,  the  "Poet  Scout."— N.  Y.  Evening  Telegram,  August  1th,  1885: 

A  NATION  droops  her  head  and  weeps  ; 

Her  tears  are  honest  drops  of  sorrow  ; 
Her  honored  chief  in  silence  sleeps  ; 

We  march  behind  his  bier  to-morrow. 

To-morrow  you  who  often  stood 

Beside  him  in  the  fiercest  fray 
Will  humbly  bow,  for  God  is  good, 

Since  all  can  honor  him  to-day. 

His  valor  as  a  soldier  boy, 

His  dauntless  courage  as  our  chief, 
His  honesty  without  alloy, 

Will  ever  stand  in  bold  relief. 

Yes,  comrades,  he  is  mustered  out ; 

His  feet  have  pressed  the  golden  stair, 
His  soul  has  passed  o'er  heaven's  redoubt, 

To  be  promoted  over  there. 


20  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

THE    HEKOES   DEPARTED. 

Dedicated  to  my  Comrades  of  the  G.  A.  R. 

COME  back,  oh  come  back  to  us,  heroes  departed, 
Come  back  to  us  comrades  and  pass  in  review, 

Come  back,  silent  chieftain,  your  comrades  are  waiting 
To  join  with  the  angels  in  honor  of  you. 

We  muster  to-day  but  a  few  of  that  army 

You  led  on  to  victory  on  many  a  field, 
And  we  feel  that  thy  spirit  will  hover  around  us, 

Our  star  that  will  guide  and  our  hope  that  will  shield. 

We  honor  thee,  first,  as  our  greatest  commander, 
Transferred  in  advance  to  that  heavenly  corps  : 

Tell  Keno  and  Sedgwick,  tell  Burnside  and  Hooker, 
Tell  Abe  we  are  coming  a  million  and  more. 

Tell  Washington.  Warren,  tell  Baker  and  Kearney, 
Tell  Meade,  and  my  own  beloved  colonel  who  fell 

While  leading  our  old  Forty-eighth  through  red  blazes, 
Eight  over  the  ramparts  and  into  Fort  Hell. 

Yes,  tell  them  we're  coming,  we  make  no  distinction — 
The  private  who  fell  with  the  colors  in  hand, 

The  boy  with  his  drum  who  has  answered  death's  tattoo, 
Are  equal  to  kings  in  that  greater  command. 

And  if  you  can  look  from  the  ramparts  of  heaven, 
To-day  your  old  comrades  will  pass  in  review, 

Not  en  masse,  not  in  column,  but  scattered  and  straggling, 
Deployed -at  the  front,  but  all  coming  to  you. 

And  you  who  are  draping  our  dear  starry  banner. 

That  flag  of  our  Union,  you  fought  to  maintain, 
Oh,  let  treason  assail  it,  though  aged  and  hoary, 

And  you  would  go  marching  to  glory  again  ! 

But  hark  !  'tis  the  voice  of  the  mocking-bird  singing 
A  sweet  song  of  peace  from  the  cold  cannon's  mouth, 


THE   HEROES   DEPARTED.  21 

And  the  soldier  who  fought  with  his  back  to  the  southward 
Shakes  hands  with  the  one  who  stood  face  to  the  South. 

The  brave  meet  the  brave  while  true  feelings  fraternal 
Leap  into  the  hearts  of  the  gray  and  the  blue, 

And  Johnny  cries,  "Billy,  while  you-uns  whipped  we-uns, 
Oh,  we-uns  war  makin'  it  sultry  for  you. 

"  Let  bitterness  reign  among  them  as  war  missin', 
When  niinies  war  singin'  a  dirge  o'er  the  brave  ; 

For  you-uns  are  happy  and  we-uns  ain't  sorry, 

'Tis  the  land  of  the  free,  not  the  home  of  the  slave." 

With  malice  toward  none  and  with  Charity  blended, 

Fraternity,  Loyalty,  peace  and  good-will, 
We  gather  to-day  to  assist  one  another, 

If  need  be,  in  climbing  adversity's  hill. 

And  oh,  my  dear  comrades,  look  well  to  the  loved  ones, 
The  soldiers'  bequest  who  have  answered  tattoo  ; 

Be  kind  to  the  widow,  be  kind  to  the  orphan, 

And  the  Great  Chief  of  all  will  deal  kindly  with  you. 

A  touch  of  the  elbow  with  shoulder  to  shoulder, 

A  flash  of  the  eye  and  the  grasp  of  the  hand, 
And  the  soul  of  the  soldier  is  filled  with  emotions, 

That  none  but  the  brave  and  the  true  understand. 

Oh,  comrades,  forgive  me,  nor  think  it  is  weakness 
That  causes  these  teardrops  to  spring  to  my  eyes, 

'Tis  the  purest,  the  holiest  thoughts  of  a  soldier 

Who  never  yet  flinched,  and  who  needs  no  disguise. 

But  think  of  the  chair  of  our  chieftain  now  vacant, 

So  silent  at  roll  call,  so  sad  and  so  drear  ; 
While  the  angel  of  death  will  still  add  to  his  roster, 

And  many  now  filled  will  be  vacant  next  year. 

And  when  after  taps  comes  the  last  reveille, 

And  "assembly"  shall  sound  from  that  far-away  shore, 

May  we  meet  on  parade  'neath  the  shade  of  life's  tree, 
With  Grant,  silent  chief,  at  the  head  of  the  corps. 


22  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


THE  MINER'S  HOME. 

IT  is  not  a  castle  with  towering  walls, 
With  marble  floor  and  stately  halls, 
With  lovely  walks  and  grand  old  trees, 
Nodding  and  bending  in  the  breeze. 

No  ;  his  home  is  an  humble  cot, 
Perched  perchance  on  the  mountain  top, 
With  tunnels  beneath,  where  the  iron  horse 
Thunders  along  on  his  fiery  course. 

Fair  Virginia  !  above  the  hill, 
Where  miners  dig  with  pick  and  drill, 
Where  honest  toilers  seek  to  rest 
Their  weary  bones  upon  thy  breast. 

A  loving  wife  to  make  one  glad, 
A  babe  to  kiss  the  miner  lad  ; 
With  this  the  miner  need  not  roam, 
If  he  has  a  cottage  and  love  at  home. 

Mine,  though  far  away  from  here, 
My  cabin  home   is  ever  dear. 
Bright  memories  haunt  me  every  day 
Of  that  cabin  where  I  often  lay, 

And  dreamed  of  eyes  of  heavenly  blue  — 
A  maiden  young  and  fair  and  true  ; 
Of  brighter  days  and  toil's  reward, 
A  maiden's  love  for  a  mountain  bard. 

Up  the  mountain,  down  the  glen, 
Each  eve  I  see  these  hardy  men  ; 
With  axe  and  shovel,  pick  and  drill, 
They  toil  all  day  with  a  hearty  will. 

And  when  at  e'en  their  toil  is  o'er, 
They  hasten  home  to  the  open  door 


KATTLIN'  JOE'S  PRAYER.  23 

Of  the  little  cot  ;  though  shaggy  and  grim, 
There's  happiness  there  and  love  within. 

Though  the  rooms  within  are  low  and  small. 
There's  whitewash  on  the  old  gray  wall ; 
The  table  with  its  crockery,  too, 
Is  glistening  like  the  morning  dew. 

While  all  seem  happy  in  the  cot, 
The  children,  sporting  on  the  lot, 
Are  merry  as  a  marriage  bell, 
And  mother  whispers,  "  All  is  well." 

And  now  good-bye — I  must  away, 
My  time  is  up.     Yet  while  I  say 
Good-bye,  I'll  wish,  where'er  I  roam, 
That  GOD  will  bless  the  miner's  home. 


EATTLIN'  JOE'S  PRAYEE. 

JIST  pile  on  some  more  o'  them  pine  knots, 

An'  squat  yoursel's  down  on  this  skin, 
An',  Scotty,  let  up  on  yer  growlin' — 

The  boys  are  all  tired  o'  yer  chin. 
Alleghany,  jist  pass  round  the  bottle, 

An'  give  the  lads  all  a  square  drink, 
An'  as  soon  as  yer  settled  I'll  tell  ye 

A  yarn  as  '11  please  ye,  I  think. 

'Twas  the  year  eighteen  hundred  an'  sixty, 

A  day  in  the  bright  month  o'  June, 
When  the  Angel  o'  Death  from  the  Diggin's 

Snatched  "  Monte  Bill  ''—known  as  McCune. 
Wai,  Bill  war  a  favorite  among  us, 

In  spite  o'  the  trade  that  he  had, 
Which  war  gamblin'  ;  but — don't  you  forget  it 

He  of  en  made  weary  hearts  glad  ; 


24  THE    POET   SCOUT. 

An',  pards,  while  he  lay  in  that  coffin, 

Which  we  hewed  from  the  trunk  o'  a  tree, 

His  face  war  as  calm  as  an  angel's, 
An'  white  as  an  angel's  could  be. 

An'  thar's  war  the  trouble  commenced,  pards. 

Thar  war  no  gospel-sharps  in  the  camps, 
An'    Joe   said  :  "  We  can't  drop  him  this  way, 

Without  some  directions  or  stamps." 
Then  up  spoke  old  Sandy  McGregor  : 

"  Look'ee  yar,  mates,  I'm  reg'lar  dead  stuck, 
I  can't  hold  no  hand  at  religion, 

An'  I'm  'feared  Bill's  gone  in  out  o'  luck. 
If  I  knowed  a  darn  thing  about  prayin', 

I'd  chip  in  an'  say  him  a  mass  ; 
But  I  ain't  got  no  show  in  the  lay-out, 

I  can't  beat  the  game,  so  I  pass." 

Eattlin'  Joe  war  the  next  o'  the  speakers, 

An'  Joe  war  a  friend  o'  the  dead  ; 
The  salt  water  stood  in  his  peepers, 

An'  these  are  the  words  as  he  said  : 
'*  Mates,  ye  know  as  I  ain't  any  Christian, 

An'  I'll  gamble  the  good  Lord  don't  know 
That  thar  lives  sich  a  rooster  as  I  am  ; 

But  thar  once  war  a  time,  long  ago, 
When  I  war  a  kid  ;  I  remember, 

My  old  mother  sent  me  to  school, 
To  the  little  brown  church  every  Sunday, 

Whar  they  said  I  was  dumb  as  a  mule. 
An'  I  reckon  I've  nearly  forgotten 

Purty  much  all  thet  ever  I  knew. 
But  still,  if  ye' 11  drop  to  my  racket, 

I'll  show  ye  jist  what  I  kin  do. 

"Now,  I'll  show  you  my  bible,"  said  Joseph— 
"  Jist  hand  me  them  cards  off  that  rack  ; 

I'll  convince  ye  thet  this  are  a  bible," 
An'  he  went  to  work  shufflin'  the  pack. 


RATTLIN'  JOE'S  PRAYER.  25 

He  spread  out  the  cards  on  the  table, 

An'  begun  kinder  pious-like  :  "  Pards, 
If  ye'll  jist  cheese  yer  racket  an'  listen, 

I'll  show  ye  the  pra'ar-book  in  cards. 

"The  'ace,'  that  reminds  us  of  one  God, 

The  'deuce,'  of  the  Father  an'  Son, 
The  '  tray,'  of  the  Father  an'  Son,  Holy  Ghost, 

For,  ye  see,  all  them  three  are  but  one. 
The  « four-spot '  is  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke  an'  John, 

The  'five-spot,'  the  virgins  who  trimmed 
Their  lamps  while  yet  it  was  light  of  the  dajr, 

And  the  five  foolish  virgins  who  sinned. 
The  '  six-spot ' — in  six  days  the  Lord  made  the  world, 

The  sea  and  the  stars  in  the  heaven  ; 
He  saw  it  war  good  w'at  He  made,  then  He  said, 

I'll  jist  go  the  rest  on  the  '  seven.' 
The  '  eight-spot '  is  Noah,  his  wife  an'  three  sons, 

An'  Noah's  three  sons  had  their  wives  ; 
God  loved  the  hull  mob,  so  bid  'em  emb-ark — 

In  the  freshet  He  saved  all  their  lives. 
The  nine  war  the  lepers  of  biblical  fame, 

A  repulsive  an'  hideous  squad — 
The  '  ten  '  are  the  holy  commandments,  which  came 

To  us  perishin'  creatures  from  God. 
The  '  queen  '  war  of  Sheba  in  old  Bible  times, 

The  '  king'  represents  old  King  Sol. 
She  brought  in  a  hundred  young  folks,  gals  an'  boys, 

To  the  King  in  his  government  hall. 
They  were  all  dressed  alike,  an'  she  axed  the  old  boy 

(She'd  put  up  his  wisdom  as  bosh) 
Which  war  boys  an'  which  gals.     Old  Sol.  said  :   '  By  Joe, 

How  dirty  their  hands  !     Make  'em  wash  !  ' 
An'  then  he  showed  Sheba  the  boys  only  washed 

Their  hands  and  a  part  o'  their  wrists, 
While  the  gals  jist  went  up  to  their  elbows  in  suds. 

Sheba  weakened  an'  shook  the  king's  fists. 
Now,  the  'knave,'  that's  the  Devil,  an',  GOD,  ef  ye  please, 

Jist  keep  his  hands  off' n  poor  Bill. 


26  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

An'  now,  lads,  jist  drop  on  yer  knees  for  a  while 

Till  I  draw,  and  perhaps  I  kin  fill  ; 
An'  hevin'  no  Bible,  I'll  pray  on  the  cards, 

Fur  I've  showed  ye  they're  all  on  the  squar', 
An'  I  think  God  '11  cotton  to  all  that  I  say, 

If  I'm  only  sincere  in  the  pra'ar. 
Jist  give  him  a  corner,  good  LOED — not  on  stocks, 

Fur  I  ain't  such  a  durned  fool  as  that, 
To  ax  ye  fur  anything  worldly  fur  Bill, 

Ease  ye'd  put  me  up  then  fur  a  flat. 
I'm  lost  on  the  rules  o'  yer  game,  but  I'll  ax 

Fur  a  seat  fur  him  back  o'  the  throne, 
And  I'll  bet  my  hull  stack  thet  the  boy'll  behave 

If  yer  angels  jist  lets  him  alone. 
Thar's  nuthin'  bad  :bout  him  unless  he  gets  riled— 

The  boys  '11  all  back  me  in  that— 
But  if  any  one  treads  on  his  corns,  then  you  bet 

He'll  fight  at  the  drop  o'  the  hat. 
Jist  don't  let  yer  angels  run  over  him,  Lord, 

Nor  shut  off  all  to  once  on  his  drink  ; 
Break  him  in  kinder  gentle  an'  mild  on  the  start, 

An  he'll  give  ye  no  trouble,  I  think. 
An'  couldn't  ye  give  him  a  pack  of  old  cards, 

To  amuse  himself  once  in  a  while? 
But  I  warn  ye  right  hyar,  not  to  bet  on  his  game, 

Or  he  11  get  right  away  with  yer  pile. 
An'  now,  Lord,  I  hope  thet  ye've  tuck  it  all  in, 

An'  listened  to  all  thet  I've  said. 
I  know  that  ray  prayin'  is  jist  a  bit  thin, 

But  I've  done  all  I  kin  for  the  dead. 
An'  I  hope  I  hain't  troubled  yer  Lordship  too  much — 

So  I'll  cheese  it  by  axin'  again 
Thet  ye  won't  let  the  '  knave '  git  his  grip  on  poor  Bill. 

Thet's  all,  Lord — yours  truly — Amen." 

Thet's  "  Rattlin'  Joe's"  prayer,  old  pardners, 
An'  — what  !  you  all  snorin'  ?  Say,  Lew, 

By  thunder  !  I've  talked  every  rascal  to  sleep, 
So  I  guess  I  hed  best  turn  in  too. 


THE  TEKDEKFOOT.  2? 


THE   TENDERFOOT. 

A    SONG. 

LOOK  not  with  contempt  on  his  dust-covered  form, 

Or  his  coat,  tho'  'tis  shabby  and  gray, 
But  think  of  the  heart  that  is  swelling  beneath, 

And  the  loved  ones  he  left  far  away. 
He  cornes  not  with  wealth,  but  his  muscles  are  strong, 

And  his  face  bears  the  stamp  of  a  man  ; 
Perhaps  he  has  little  ones  praying  at  home — 

Then  help  him  whenever  you  can. 

Chorus. 
Yes,  help  the  poor  tenderfoot,  give  him  a  show — 

Some  day  he  may  be  a  great  man  ; 
Perhaps  he  has  little  ones  praying  at  home — 

Then  help  him  whenever  you  can. 

Sometimes  a  kind  word  to  the  poor  and  oppressed 

Will  lighten  the  burden  of  care, 
And  shed  a  new  light  on  a  heart  that  is  sad, 

And  make  all  his  prospects  more  fair. 
It  costs  a  man  nothing  to  .speak  a  kind  word 

To  the  tenderfoot— strange  in  our  land  — 
For  oh  !  if  you  knew  how  it  brightens  his  life, 

You  would  not  refuse  him  a  hand. 

Chorus. 

He  is  poor  in  his  pocket  but  rich— in  his  mind, 

He  is  filled  with  ambition  and  hope. 
Who  knows — he  may  strike  it,  as  others  have  done, 

And  make  a  big  raise  on  the  slope. 
There's  Mackey  and  Fair,  there's  Flood  and  O'Brien, 

There's  Tabor,  and  Routt,  and  McKay  ; 
Just  think  of  the  power  they  wield  in  our  land 

They  were  all  tenderf eet  in  their  day. 

Chorus. 


28  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


LITTLE  ONES  PKAYING  AT  HOME. 


On  the  15th  of  September,  1880,  I  was  camped  at  Lake  Groozman,  "  Lacpuna 
de  Goozman,"  in  the  State  of  Chihuahua,  Old  Mexico.  I  had  been  sent  out  by 
General  Buell,  with  two  companions,  to  find  the  camp  of  the  hostile  chief  Vic- 
torio,  with  the  view  of  meeting  him,  and,  if  possible,  of  inducing  him  to  return 
to  the  Reservation.  While  reading  a  letter  from  my  wife,  the  following  line 
appeared:  "Remember,  my  dear  boy,  you  have  little  ones  praying  at  home." 
As  this  was  one  of  the  most  dangerous  as  well  as  the  most  t'resome  trips 
I  ever  made,  these  lines  were  very  suggestive,  and  there,  by  the  beautiful  lake 
and  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  I  wrote  tne  following  song: 

THERE  are  little  ones  praying  for  me  far  away, 

There  are  little  ones  praying  for  me  ; 
With  tiny  hands  pressed  before  each  little  breast, 

Their  sweet  faces  in  dreamland  I  see. 
Bless  papa,  dear  father,  where'er  he  may  go, 

And  where  duty  may  call  him  to  roam  ; 
Through  the  hills  or  the  valleys  of  Old  Mexico, 

Watch  over  and  bring  him  safe  home. 

Chorus. 

So  to-night  I  am  happy  in  Old  Mexico, 
While  I  sit  in  the  moonlight  alone  ; 

For  surely  'tis  pleasant  to  feel  and  to  know 
There  are  little  ones  praying  at  home. 

I  know  not  what  moment  my  spirit  may  fly 

To  that  land  where  dear  mother  has  gone  ; 
But  oh,  if  I  knew  on  that  bosom  so  true 

I  might  rest  on  the  morrow  at  dawn, 
I  would  willingly  go,  never  more  to  return, 

Never  more  through  these  wrild  lands  to  roam  ; 
But  sweet  little  voices  seem  whispering  to-night, 

"  You  have  little  ones  praying  at  home." 

Chorus. 


BALD    MOUNTAIN.  29 

The  moon  in  her  splendor  is  shining  to-night, 

By  her  beams  I  am  writing  just  now, 
While  an  angel  of  love  seems  to  smile  from  above, 

With  the  bright  star  of  hope  on  her  brow, 
And  whisper  in  language  so  sweet  to  my  soul, 

"  I  am  with  you  wherever  you  roam  ; 
And  remember  when  weary  and  foot-sore  at  night, 

You  have  little  ones  praying  at  home.' ' 

Chorus. 


BALD  MOUNTAIN. 

(CAKIBOO,    B.  C.) 

WHAT  mighty  mountains  I  behold 

Where'er  I  turn  my  e3res, 
Undoubted  evidence  of  gold, 

With  snow  peaks  in  the  skies  ; 
And  down  below  green  pasture  land, 

Where  cooling  streamlets  flow, 
I  never  gazed  on  sight  so  grand 

As  this  I  see  below. 

What  mean  those  giant  ledges  there 

With  mossy-covered  brow  ? 
And,  tell  me,  are  there  none  that  bear 

The  gold  we're  seeking  now? 
The  little  streamlets  seem  to  frown  ; 

I  almost  hear  them  say, 
"  For  ages  we  have  washed  it  down 

Where  miners  struck  the  pay." 

And  Nature  ought  to  teach  us,  too, 

If  we  could  read  aright, 
That  every  ounce  from  Cariboo 

Came  down  some  rugged  height ; 


30  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

And  though  our  sky  is  locking  dark, 
Our  quartz  is  yet  untried, 

Remember  that  Noah  built  an  ark 
To  float  upon  the  tide  ! 

And  surely  you,  old  pioneers 

(Who  came  in  times  of  old), 
Will  only  laugh  at  idje  fears, 

And  never  lose  your  hold  ; 
For  one  who  never  turned  a  drill 

And  never  fired  a  shot, 
Can  little  know  what's  in  the  hill 

Except  for  some  vile  plot. 

But  so  it  is  in  every  land  : 
Wherever  gold  is  found, 

There' re  thieving  tricksters  right  on  hand 
To  run  it  in  the  ground  ; 

And  you  who  toil  from  morn  till  night- 
Will  you  give  up  the  ship 

When  you  have  got  a  stake  in  sight- 
Let  go  and  lose  your  grip  ? 

Thou  crystal  bed,  half  decomposed, 

With  walls  six  feet  apart, 
We  ask  no  wise  philosopher 

To  tell  us  what  thou  art. 
'Tis  bat  the  miner  can  unfold 

Thy  secret,  as  we  know, 
And  wrest  from  thee  the  precious  gold 

Thy  bosom  holds  below. 

Go  ask  the  winds,  ye  grumbling  drones. 

If  all  you've  heard  is  true — 
If  all  your  quartz  is  barren  stones 

In  all  your  Cariboo  ? 
And  they  will  bleakly  answer  back, 

"  Go,  learn  in  Nature's  school  ; 
Go,  take  your  pick  and  bend  your  back, 

But  don't  consult  a  fool." 


THE   MOUNTAIN   BOY'S   LETTEK.  31 


THE  MOUNTAIN  BOY'S  LETTER. 

Soon  after  General  Grant  landed  at  San  Francisco,  on  his  tour  around  the 
world,  Lincoln  Post,  G.  A.  R.,  presented  the  "Color  Guard,"  amifitary  drama, 
in  which  Captain  Jack  Crawford  played  the  leading  role  (a  Tennessee  scout), 
supported  by  T.  W.  Keene  and  the  California  Theatre  Company.  During  the 
performance  Captain  Jack  recited  the  "  Mountain  Boy's  Letter"  amid  great  en 
thusiasm.  It  was  highly  appreciated  by  the  General,  who,  being  "  corralled,"  as 
Jack  expresses  it,  by  big  bugs  and  Sunday  soldiers,  could  not  reach  the  boys 

"  Who  followed  him  into  the  battle, 
And  gallantly  guarded  the  flanks." 

The  poem  was  telegraphed  across  the  continent,  and  appeared  in  Grant's 
"  Tour  of  the  World,"  published  in  Chicago,  and,  with  the  exception  of  Bret 
Harte's  "  Heathen  Chinee,"  is  the  only  poem  ever  wired  from  ocean  to  ocean. — 
Will  L.  Vischer,  in  Denver  Tribune. 

DEAR  GINEE'L  : 

I  arn't  no  scollar, 

An'  I  never  done  nothin'  to  brag, 
'Cept  this— I  war  one  o'  the  outfit 

As  fought  for  our  Star-Spangled  Flag. 
An'  to-day  while  yer  toasted  by  scollars, 

An'  big  bugs  as  make  a  great  noise, 
Why,  I  thought  it  the  squar'  thing  to  write  yer, 

An'  chip  in  a  word  for  yer  boys. 

Cos,  yer  see,  we  ain't  got  the  colat'r'l, 

Nor  the  larnin'  to  dish  it  up  right  ; 
But  ye'll  find  should  thar  be  any  trouble, 

Our  boys  are  still  ready  ter  fight. 
As  for  you,  if  they  didn't  corral  yer, 

You'd  shake  comrades'  hands  that  yer  seed, 
An'  that's  why  I  wanted  to  tell  yer, 

We'll  jest  take  the  will  for  the  deed. 

But  yer  back,  and  the  men  of  all  nations 

War  proud  ter  do  honor  to  you, 
An'  I  reckon,  Ulysses,  yer  told  em, 

Ye  wor  proud  o'  yer  comrades  in  blue, 


32  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

For  you,  we  are  sure,  of  all  others, 
Kemembered  our  boys  in  the  ranks, 

Who  f ollor'  d  ye  inter  the  battle, 
And  gallantly  guarded  the  flanks. 

So,  welcome,  a  thousand  times  welcome, 

Our  land  is  ablaze  with  delight  ; 
Our  people  give  thanks  for  yer  safety, 

Your  comrades  are  happy  to-night. 
We  know  you  are  wearied  and  tuckerd, 

But  seein'  as  you're  a  new-comer, 
You'll  Grant  us  one  glance  on  this  line  if, 

In  reading,  it  takes  yer  all  summer. 


NOTES  IN   A   CAMP-MEETING. 

(NEAK  WILLIAMSPOKT,  PA.) 

I  HAVE  heard  the  different  preachers, 

In  the  camp  among  the  trees, 
And  the  voices  of  the  angels, 

Seeming  wafted  with  the  breeze  ; 
And  I'm  sure  the  God  of  Battles 

Smiled  on  those  who  came  for  good— 
But  I  fear  He  frowned  on  many 

Who  were  wicked,  vain,  and  rude. 

The  demon  Rum  I  saw,  too, 

As  he  staggered  through  the  camp, 
And  the  crowds  who  drank  in  darkness, 

For  they  shunned  the  lighted  lamp. 
There  were  many  Williamsporters — 

And  how  they  cursed  and  swore  ! 
And  I  noticed  quite  a  number 

From  your  moral  Jersey  shore. 


NOTES   IN   A   CAMP-MEETING.  33 

Now,  the  camp  is  good  for  Christians, 

And  for  those  who  wish  to  come 
To  the  crystal  fount  of  Jesus  ; 

And  I  know  that  there  are  some 
Who  have  sought  and  found  a  Saviour, 

Who  was  heretofore  unknown  ; 
But  I  prefer  the  wilderness, 

To  pray  to  Him  alone. 

And  often  in  the  wildwood, 

And  on  the  far-off  plain, 
Where,  all  alone,  so  oft  I've  been, 

And  soon  will  be  again — 
'Twas  there,  when  shades  of  evening 

And  twilight  round  me  fell — 
Yes,  there  alone  with  angels, 

I  thought  of  heaven  and  hell ! 

And  when  in  camp,  last  evening, 

And  sitting  'neath  the  trees, 
I  was  taking  notes  of  incidents, 

And  thought  how  hard  to  please, 
If  Christ  Himself  came  down  to  preach 

And  cure  the  sin-diseased, 
There's  some  who  would  not  hear  Him, 

And  some  would  be  displeased  ! 

But  there  is  one  thing  certain, 

And  I'll  tell  you  on  the  square — 
I've  seen  some  preachers  put  on  style 

With  such  a  foreign  air  ; 
And  some  with  stand-up  collars 

Would  a  ragged  sinner  scorn  ! 
They  came  out  from  the  city 

To  blow  their  gospel  horn  ! 

They  told  us,  too,  what  they  had  done 

In  other  fields  of  grace — 
How  many  sinners  they  had  saved 

From  the  tormenting-place  ; 


34  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

But  there  is  none  that  1  have  met 
Who'd  risk  his  scalp  with  me. 

And  go  convert  the  noble  Sioux 
For  smaller  salary  ! 

Give  me  the  brave  old  pioneers — 

The  heroes  good  and  bold — 
Who  never  feared  to  fight  and  die 

For  Christ  and  His  little  fold  ! 
The  men  who  left  their  homes,  their  all, 

The  savage  wilds  to  fight — 
Who  felled  the  forest  trees  by  day 

And  preached  us  Christ  by  night. 

Such  is  the  man  I  love  to  meet, 

Whose  face  wears  Heaven's  brand — 
With  manly  courage  in  his  heart 

And  rifle  in  his  hand. 
And  if  some  of  these  dainty  preachers 

Cared  less  for  wounds  and  scars, 
Would  go  out  West  and  preach  Christ  there, 

We'd  have  less  Indian  wars  ! 

But  if  I've  judged  them  wrongly, 

Oh,  pardoned  may  I  be  ; 
But  they're  not  just  the  kind  of  preachers 

To  convert  such  men  as  we. 
Of  course,  we've  no  book  learning, 

But  then  our  hearts  are  right — 
If  we  don't  know  much  of  preaching, 

We  at  least  know  how  to  fight ! 

So,  Bill,  old  man,  and  you,  Jack, 

Away  to  the  front  and  flank  ; 
You  must  again  face  that  danger 

From  which  you  never  shrank  ; 
And  if  they  won't  send  preachers 

To  convert  the  savage  state, 
Of  course  the  knife  and  bullet 

Must  be  the  red  man' s  fate. 


DREAMING   OF   MOTHEE.  35 

DEEAMING   OF   MOTHEE. 

SONG. 

LAST  night  I  was  dreaming  of  mother, 

Yes,  dreaming  of  mother  and  home, 
The  little  log  hut  where  she  blessed  me 

When  fortune  compelled  me  to  roam  ; 
How  she  prayed  for  her  boy  at  that  moment, 

While  tears  wet  the  locks  on  my  brow, 
And  I  said  the  good-by  to  my  sister, 

Farewell  to  the  farm  and  the  plough  ! 

Chorus. 
.    Dreaming,  dreaming, 

Dreaming  of  home  and  of  mother  ; 
Dreaming  of  home  wherever  I  roam, 
I'm  dreaming  of  home  and  of  mother. 

Last  night  I  was  dreaming  of  mother, 

I  dreamed  she  was  free  from  all  care, 
And  she  kissed  me  again  as  in  childhood 

At  home,  in  the  old  arm-chair  ; 
And  the  old-fashioned  cap,  like  a  snowflake 

That  mixed  with  the  ringlets  of  gray, 
Seemed  richer  to.  me  than  those  treasures 

And  millions  just  over  the  way. 

Chorus. 

And  oft  while  asleep  in  the  wildwood 

Those  scenes  of  my  childhood  appear, 
And  surely  the  angels  are  watching 

While  dreaming  that  mother  is  near ! 
Oh,  happy  the  thought,  dearest  mother, 

The  hope  of  our  meeting  once  more, 
When,  free  from  the  world  and  its  sorrows, 

We  dwell  on  that  ever  bright  shore  ! 

Chorus. 


36  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

CALIFORNIA  JOE   AND   THE   GIRL   TRAPPER. 

A   CAMP-FIRE   REMINISCENCE. 

About  the  middle  of  April,  1876,  I  received  a  note  from  California  Joe,  who 
had  a  fine  ranche  on  Rapid  Creek,  and  was  trying  to  induce  new-comers  to  settle 
there  and  build  a  town,  to  be  called  Rapid  City.  The  note  was  written  in  lead- 
pencil,  and  ran  thus  : 

"RAPID,  April  10,  1876. 

"  Mr  DEAR  JACK  :  If  you  can  be  spared  for  a  week  from  Custer,  come  over  and 
bring  Jule  and  Frank  Smith  with  you.  The  reds  have  been  raising  merry  old 
h — 1,  and,  after  wounding  our  herder  and  a  miner  named  Sherwood,  got  away 
with  eight  head  of  stock,  my  old  Bally  with  the  rest.  There  are  only  ten  of  us 
here,  all  told,  and  1  think  if  you  can  come  with  the  iwo  boys,  we  can  lay  for 
them  at  the  lower  falls,  and  gobble  'em  next  time.  Answer  by  bearer  if  you 
can't  come  ;  and  send  me  fifty  rounds  of  cartridges  for  the  Sharps — big  fifty. 
Hoping  this  will  find  you  with  your  top-knot  still  waving,  I  remain  as  ever,  your 
pard,  JOE." 

I  immediately  saw  Major  Wynkoop,  commanding  the  Rangers,  got  his  permis 
sion,  and  arrived  at  Rapid  Creek  on  the  following  night,  with  four  comrades. 
After  two  days'  and  nights'  watching  at  the  lower  falls,  Jule  Seminole,  one  of 
my  scouts,  a  Cheyenne,  came  in  at  dusk  and  informed  us  that  there  were 
between  twenty  and  thirty  Indians  encamped  at  the  box  elder,  about  twenty 
miles  away,  and  that  they  were  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  Big 
Cheyenne,  and  would  probably  move  to  Rapid  during  the  night.  Jule  could 
almost  invariably  tell  just  what  an  Indian  was  going  to  do  if  he  could  get  his 
eyes  on  him,  and  he  was  correct  in  this  instance.  About  three  o'clock  next 
morning  Joe  went  up  to  his  cabin  and  started  a  big  log  fire  ;  also  two  other  fires 
in  different  cabins.  These  cabins  were  over  a  mile  from  where  we  were  in  ambush, 
while  our  horses  were  all  picketed  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  creek,  which 
was  narrow  at  its  point  of  entrance  from  the  prairie,  but  widened  into  a  beauti 
ful  river  half  a  mile  up.  Just  as  day  was  breaking1,  one  of  the  Indians  was  dis 
covered  by  Frank  Smith  wading  up  the  creek.  Frank  reported  to  Joe  and  I, 
and  Joe  remarked  :  "  Let  him  go — he  will  soon  signal  the  others  to  follow."  In 
fifteen  minutes  more  the  shrill  bark  of  a  coyote  proved  Joe's  judgment  to  be  cor 
rect.  Twenty -three  well-armed  Indians— Sioux — rode  up  along  the  willow  bank 
in  Indian  file.  There  were  seventeen  of  u?,  Zeb  Swaringen  and  Ned  Baker,  two 
old  miners,  having  joined  us  the  night  before.  We  had  six  men  on  one  side, 
near  an  opening,  which  we  believed  the  Indians  would  break  for  on  receiving  our 
fire  from  the  opposite  side;  and  farther  up,  when  the  Indians  had  got  parallel 
with  our  main  body,  we  took  aim  as  best  we  could  in  the  gray  of  the  morning, 


CALIFORNIA   JOE   AND   THE   GIRL   TRAPPER.          37 

and  fired  nearly  together;  then,  before  they  recovered,  gave  them  another  volley, 
and,  leaving  our  cover,  followed  on  foot  those  who  did  not  stay  with  us.  We 
were  disappointed  in  their  taking  the  opening,  but  the  boys  were  in  fair  range 
and  did  good  work,  killing  one,  wounding  two,  and  unhorsing  three  others,  who 
took  to  the  woods.  We  got  fifteen  ponies,  our  first  fire  never  touching  horse  hair, 
but  emptying  several  saddles.  Out  of  the  twenty-three  Indians,  fifteen  escaped. 
Joe  killed  three  himself  with  his  big  Sharps  rifle,  the  last  one  being  nearly  five 
hundred  yards  away  when  he  fired  from  a  rest  off  Frank  Smith's  shoulder.  Joe 
had  a  piece  taken  out  of  his  left  thigh,  Franklin  was  wounded  in  the  left  arm, 
and  the  writer  slightly  scratched  near  the  guard  of  the  right  arm.  Nobody  was 
seriously  hurt,  and  we  had  eight  scalps  to  crown  our  victory.  But  1  did  not  in 
tend,  when  I  commenced,  to  write  all  these  particulars;  I  merely  intended  to 
speak  of  a  camp-fire  story,  as  lold  by  Joe  at  the  camp-fire  on  he  n'ght  following 
the  incident  related.  The  following  lines,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect,  tell  the 
story  of  Joe's  courtship  and  marriage.  I  must  add  that  Joe  was  killed  at  Red 
Cloud,  in  December  the  same  year,  while  acting  as  Black  Hills  guide.  He  was  a 
brave,  generous,  unselfish  man,  and  his  only  fault  was  liquor.  Now  for  the 
story  : 

WELL,  mates,  I  don't  like  stories, 

Nor  am  I  going  to  act 
A  part  around  this  camp-fire 

That  ain't  a  truthful  fact. 
So  fill  your  pipes  and  listen, 

I'll  tell  you— let  me  see, 
I  think  it  was  in  Fifty, 

From  that  till  Sixty-three. 

You've  all  heard  tell  of  Bridger, 

I  used  to  run  with  Jim, 
And  many  a  hard  day's  scouting 

I've  done  'longside  of  him. 
Well,  once,  near  old  Fort  Reno, 

A  trapper  used  to  dwell  ; 
We  called  him  old  Pap  Reynolds — 

The  scouts  all  knew  him  well. 

One  night — the  spring  of  Fifty — 

We  camped  on  Powder  River, 
We  killed  a  calf  of  buffalo, 

And  cooked  a  slice  of  liver  : 


38 


THE  POET   SCOUT. 


While  eating,  quite  contented, 
We  heard  three  shots  or  four 

Put  out  the  fire  and  listened, 
Then  heard  a  dozen  more. 


We  knew  that  old  man  Reynolds 
Had  moved  his  traps  up  here  ; 

So,  picking  up  our  rifles 
And  fixing  on  our  gear, 


CALIFORNIA   JOE    AND   THE   GIEL   TRAPPER.          39 

We  mounted  quick  as  lightnin', 

To  save  was  our  desire. 
Too  late  ;  the  painted  heathens 

Had  set  the  house  on  fire. 

We  tied  our  horses  quickly, 

And  waded  up  the  stream  ; 
While  close  beside  the  water 

I  heard  a  muffled  scream. 
And  there  among  the  bushes 

A  little  girl  did  lie. 
I  picked  her  up  and  whispered  : 

"  I'll  save  you,  or  1'il  die  f" 

Lord,  what  a  ride  !  old  Bridger, 

He  covered  my  retreat. 
Sometimes  the  child  would  whisper, 

In  voice  so  low  and  sweet  : 
"  Poor  papa,  God  will  take  him 

To  mamma  up  above  ; 
There's  no  one  left  to  love  me — 

There's  no  one  left  to  love." 

The  little  one  was  thirteen, 

And  I  was  twenty-two. 
Said  I  :  "  I'll  be  your  father, 

And  love  you  just  as  true.' ' 
She  nestled  to  my  bosom, 

Her  hazel  eyes,  so  bright, 
Looked  up  and  made  me  happy, 

Though  close  pursued  that  night. 

A  month  had  passed,  and  Maggie 

(We  called  her  Hazel  Eye), 
In  truth,  was  going  to  leave  me — 

Was  going  to  say  "  good-by." 
Her  uncle,  mad  Jack  Reynolds — 

Reported  long  since  dead- 
Had  come  to  claim  my  angel, 

His  brother's  child,  he  said. 


40  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

What  could  I  say  ?    We  parted. 

Mad  Jack  was  growing  old  ; 
I  handed  him  a  bank  note 

And  all  I  had  in  gold 
They  rode  away  at  sunrise, 

I  went  a  mile  or  two, 
And,  parting,  said  :  ' '  We'll  meet  again- 

May  God  watch  over  you." 


Beside  a  laughing,  dancing  brook, 

A  little  cabin  stood, 
As,  weary  with  a  long  day's  scout, 

I  spied  it  in  the  wood. 
A  pretty  valley  stretched  beyond, 

The  mountains  towered  above, 
While  near  the  willow  bank  I  heard 

The  cooing  of  a  dove. 


'Twas  one  grand  panorama, 
The  brook  was  plainly  seen, 

Like  a  long  thread  of  silver 
In  a  cloth  of  lovely  green. 

The  laughter  of  the  waters, 
The  cooing  of  the  dove, 

Was  like  some  painted  picture- 
Some  well-told  tale  of  love. 


While  drinking  in  the  grandeur, 

And  resting  in  my  saddle, 
I  heard  a  gentle  ripple 

Like  the  dipping  of  a  paddle. 
I  turned  toward  the  eddy — 

A  strange  sight  met  my  view  : 
A  maiden,  with  her  rifle, 

In  a  little  bark  canoe. 


CALIFORNIA   JOE  AND   THE   GIRL   TRAPPER.          41 


She  stood  up  in  the  centre, 

The  rifle  to  her  eye  ; 
I  thought  (just  for  a  second) 

My  time  had  come  to  die. 
I  doffed  my  hat  and  told  her 

(If  it  was  all  the  same) 
To  drop  her  little  shooter, 

For  I  was  not  her  game. 


42  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

She  dropped  the  deadly  weapon, 

And  leaped  from  the  canoe. 
Said  she  :  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 

I  thought  you  were  a  Sioux  ; 
Your  long  hair  and  your  buckskin 

Looked  warrior-like  and  rough  ; 
My  bead  was  spoiled  by  sunshine, 

Or  I'd  killed  you,  sure  enough." 

"  Perhaps  it  had  been  better 

You  dropped  me  then,"  said  I  ; 
' '  For  surely  such  an  angel 

Would  bear  me  to  the  sky." 
She  blushed  and  dropped  her  eyelids, 

Her  cheeks  were  crimson  red  ; 
One  half-shy  glance  she  gave  me, 

And  then  hung  down  her  head. 

I  took  her  little  hand  in  mine- 
She  wondered  what  I  meant, 

And  yet  she  drew  it  not  away, 
But  rather  seemed  content. 

We  sat  upon  the  mossy  bank — 
Her  eyes  began  to  fill — 

The  brook  was  rippling  at  our  feet, 
The  dove  was  cooing  still. 

I  smoothed  her  golden  tresses, 

Her  eyes  looked  up  in  mine, 
She  seemed  in  doubt— then  whispered 

"  'Tis  such  a  long,  long  time 
Strong  arms  were  thrown  around  me — 

I'll  save  you,  or  I'll  die." 
I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom — 

My  long-lost  Hazel  Eye. 

The  rapture  of  that  moment 
Was  almost  heaven  to  me. 

I  kissed  her  'mid  her  tear-drops, 
Her  innocence  and  glee. 


CALIFORNIA   JOE   AND   THE   GIRL   TRAPPER,          43 

Her  heart  near  mine  was  beating, 

While  sobbingly  she  said  : 
"  My  dear,  my  brave  preserver, 

They  told  me  you  were  dead. 

"  But,  oh  !  those  parting  words,  Joe, 

Have  never  left  my  mind. 
You  said  :  '  We'll  meet  again,  Mag,' 

Then  rode  off  like  the  wind. 
And,  oh  !  how  I  have  prayed,  Joe, 

For  you,  who  saved  my  life, 
That  God  would  send  an  angel 

To  guard  you  through  all  strife. 

"  And  he  who  claimed  me  from  you, 

My  uncle,  good  and  true- 
Now  sick  in  yonder  cabin — 

Has  talked  so  much  of  you. 
'  If  Joe  were  living,  darling,' 

He  said  to  me  last  night, 
'  He  would  care  for  Maggie 

When  God  puts  out  my  light.'  " 

We  found  the  old  man  sleeping. 

"  Hush  !  Maggie,  let  him  rest." 
The  sun  was  slowly  sinking 

In  the  far-off  glowing  west ; 
And,  though  we  talked  in  whispers, 

He  opened  wide  his  eyes. 
"  A  dreain — a  dream  !"  he  murmured, 

"  Alas  !  a  dream  of  lies  !" 

She  drifted  like  a  shadow 

To  where  the  old  man  lay. 
"  You  had  a  dream,  dear  uncle— 

Another  dream  to-day  ?" 
"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  saw  an  angel, 

As  pure  as  mountain  snow, 
And  near  her,  at  my  bed-side, 

Stood  California  Joe." 


44  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

"  I'm  sure  Tm  not  an  angel, 

Dear  uncle,  that  you  know  ; 
These  arms  are  brown,  my  hands,  too — 

My  face  is  not  like  snow. 
Now,  listen,  while  I  tell  you, 

For  1  have  news  to  cheer, 
And  Hazel  Eye  is  happy, 

For  Joe  is  truly  here." 

And  when,  a  few  days  after, 
The  old  man  said  to  me  : 

' '  Joe,  boy,  she  ar1  a  angel, 
An'  good  as  angels  be. 

For  three  long  months  she's  hunted 
An'  trapped  an'  nurs'd  me,  too  ; 

God  bless  ye,  boy  !  I  believe  it- 
She's  safe  along  wi'  you." 


The  sun  was  slowly  sinking 

When  Mag  (my  wife)  and  I 
Came  riding  through  the  valley, 

The  tear-drops  in  her  eye. 
"  One  year  ago  to-day,  Joe — 

I  see  the  mossy  grave — 
We  laid  him  'neath  the  daisies, 

My  uncle,  good  and  brave." 

And,  comrades,  every  spring-time 

Was  sure  to  find  me  there — 
A  something  in  that  valley 

Was  always  fresh  and  fair. 
Our  loves  were  newly  kindled 

While  sitting  by  the  stream, 
Where  two  hearts  were  united 

In  love's  sweet,  happy  dream. 


YOU   AKE   WANTED   AT   HOME.  45 

YOU   AEE   WANTED   AT   HOME. 

SONG    AND    CHORUS. 

Written  in  San  Francisco  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of  General  Grant  from 
his  tour  around  ihe  world,  and  afterward  sung  to  the  General  by  the  California 
Quartette. 

You  are  wanted  at  home,  gallant  chieftain, 

We  are  watching  and  waiting  for  thee, 
We  are  waiting  to  give  you  a  greeting, 

A  welcome  from  over  the  sea — 
A  welcome  as  soldiers  can  give  it, 

Who  marched  with  you  back  to  the  dome, 
We  will  show  you,  our  noble  commander, 
How  much  you  are  wanted  at  home. 

Chorus. 
You  are  wanted  at  home,  yes,  we  want  you, 

For  you  were  our  bright  guiding  star, 
You  would  guide  us  aright  in  our  duty 

In  peace,  as  you  led  us  in  war. 

You  are  wanted  at  home — do  you  wonder 
•          That  comrades  all  shout  with  delight  ? 
It  is  love  for  our  gallant  commander 

Who  led  us  in  many  a  fight. 
It  is  you  who  can  best  understand  us, 

Our  chieftain,  from  over  the  foam. 

And  now  you  are  here,  we  will  tell  you 

The  why  you  are  wanted  at  home. 

Chorus. 

You  are  wanted  at  home — 'tis  the  Union, 

The  land  and  the  home  of  the  brave, 
The  land  of  our  star-spangled  banner, 

Where  man  nevermore  can  be  slave. 
You  are  wanted  by  hearts  true  and  loyal, 

Who  love  you,  wherever  you  roam, 
And  you  will  be  happy  returning, 

Because  there  is  no  place  like  home. 

Chorus. 


46  THE  POET  SCOUT. 


TKUTH. 

TRUTH  is  like  gold  in  the  gulches, 

Oft  buried  deep  under  the  sod, 
While  often  the  tender-foot  *  searches 

For  gold  on  the  face  of  the  clod. 
The  color  is  found  on  the  surface, 

But  if  you  would  find  richer  stock, 
Go  down  where  large  nuggets  are  buried, 

Go  down  till  you  find  the  bed-rock. 

Many  people  examine  the  surface, 

And  penetrate  never  within  ; 
But  the  outside  is  sleek  as  a  beaver, 

The  heart  often  dyed  deep  in  sin. 
Hence  lives  are  but  base  contradictions, 

And  hearts  are  oft  pining  in  sorrow  ; 
To-day  what  may  seem  quite  angelic 

As  crime  may  be  looked  on  to-morrow. 

Truth,  then,  is  scattered  and  buried, 

It  is  mixed  with  the  gold  in  the  glen  ; 
Go  wash  all  the  dirt  from  these  nuggets, 

And  find  if  you  can  honest  men. 
For  truth  that  is  pure  and  unvarnished 

Is  worthy  the  search  of  the  wise  ; 
Compare  it  with  nuggets  and  diamonds, 

Pure  truth  is  by  far  the  best  prize. 

One  miner,  perhaps,  in  a  million 

Will  pick  up  a  fortune  to-day, 
While  others  may  toil  for  a  lifetime, 

Yet  delve  in  the  very  same  way. 
And  yet  'tis  by  toiling  we  find  them — 

These  nuggets  we  so  much  desire  ; 
'Tis  only  by  working  unceasing 

We  manage  to  climb  up  still  higher. 

*  A  new-comer. 


THE  HAPPY-GO-LUCKY   TRAMP.  47 

And  yet  truth  may  sparkle  like  diamonds, 

But  some  men  will  cast  it  aside, 
And,  instead,  they  will  treasure  the  mica, 

And  say  to  the  truth,  "  Let  her  slide." 
But  truth  is  the  old  rock  of  ages 

Upon  which  our  forefathers  stood. 
Without  it  there  must  be  corruption, 

And  with  it  our  lives  must  be  good. 


THE  HAPPY-GO-LUCKY  TKAMP. 

WHAT  am  I  doin'  ?    Now,  what  is't  yer  biz  ? 

Can't  a  feller  stand  here  on  the  corner  an'  think  ? 
Thunder  !    I  ain't  no  slouch,  an'  as  to  my  phiz, 

It's  a  little  off-color.     What's  that  ?    Too  much  drink? 
Wai,  I  reckon  yer  right ;  but,  look  ye,  my  friend, 

Yer  a  stranger  to  me,  an'  yer  one  of  the  few 
As  would  stop  for  a  second.     They  don't  condescend 

To  grant  such  as  me  but  a  short  interview. 

Don't  talk  like  that,  sir,  it  ain't  jest  the  thing 

To  speak  of  one' s  mother,  and  she  so  long  dead. 
This  of'n  reminds  me — this  little  gold  ring — 

Jest  now  I  was  thinkin'  it  must  go  for  bread. 
An'  I've  worn  it  so  long— great  God  !  when  I  think 

How  it  served  to  remind  me — "while  tossed  on  life's  tide' 
Of  that  angel  who  gave  it — why,  even  in  drink 

She  comes  to  me,  speaks  to  me,  prays  by  my  side. 

No,  no,  wait  a  minute,  I  can't  drink  just  yet, 
Le's  talk  of  that  last  ride  I  took  on  the  freight — 

Forget !    Man  alive,  I  don't  want  to  forget, 
But  there— never  mind — I  won't  ask  you  to  wait, 


48  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

For  I  reckon  it  ain't  interestin'  nor  new, 

Thar  are  so  many  tramps,  but  my  own  brother  Ned — 

Why,  stranger,  thar's  somethin'  the  matter  with  you  ! 
Oh,  I  thought  as  it  mout  a-bin  somethin'  I  said. 

What  started  me  drinkin'  ?    Wai,  that's  quite  a  yarn, 

An',  besides,  I  don't  want  ter  have  you  standin'  here — 
Howsomever,  I  reckon  you  don't  care  a  darn — 

But  them  fancy-dressed  ladies,  jest  see  how  they  stare  ! 
What's  that  you  say  ?    Oh,  don't  make  no  error, 

Jest  show  me  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  and  strong — 
God  bless  you  !  my  heart's  fairly  jumpin'  with  terror 

For  fear  you'll  back  out  as  we're  joggin'  along. 

Good  flavor?     You  bet  it  is  the  way-uppest  coffee 

I've  struck  in  a  month.     But  I  can't  understand 
Why  you— oh,  all  right— so  you  think  that  I'm  off,  eh  ? 

What  !  me,  a  tramp,  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land ! 
Ha  !  ha  !     Blast  your  eyes,  man,  I'd  sooner  to-morrow 

Be  found  in  that  tail-race,  all  crushed  by  the  wheel, 
Than  add  one  more  sin  to  my  cup  full  of  sorrow — 

And  so,  you  would  tempt  a  poor  devil  to  steal  ? 

Not  a  sup  ? — not  a  bite  !    Oh,  why  will  temptation 

Keep  trailin'  me  up  !     Get  out  of  my  sight ! 
Or  I  swar  by  my  soul  there  will  be  a  sensation, 

And  I  will  get  grub  in  the  cooler  to-night ! 
What's  that  ?    You  know  me  of  old  ?    You're  another  ! 

And,  hang  you  !  if  I  wasn't  weaker' n  water, 
I'd—  What !—  Git  out !—  You  !—  You,  Ned  !—  My  brother  ! 

1  reckon  I'm  crazy,  and  that's  what's  the  matter ! 

Corral  me  if  I  didn't  think  you  wor  dead,  boy. 

Why,  darn  yer  young  hide,  Ned,  but  whar  hev  ye  bin  ? 
I  thought  ye  were  plugged  with  an  ounce  of  cold  lead,  boy  ; 

Ye  must  hev  slipped  out  'fore  the  redskins  got  in. 
What's  that?    In  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky"  you  struck  it ! 

The  mischief  you  did  !    Well,  somehow  I  knew, 
The  last  time  I  helped  ye  to  pull  up  that  bucket 

Thar  war  ducats  right  thar  for  your  brother  and  you  ! 


WILD  BILL'S  GRAVE.  49 


OUR   PKOSPECT. 

THERE'S  a  bonny  wee  spot  in  the  mountains  I  love, 
Where  the  pine  trees  are  waving  o'erhead  far  above, 
Where  the  miners  are  happy,  kind-hearted  and  free, 
And  many  come  here  from  way  over  the  sea. 

There's  gold  in  the  mountains,  there's  gold  in  each  glen, 
The  good  time  is  coming,  have  patience,  brave  men  ; 
Hold  on  to  your  ledges,  and  soon  you  will  see 
Both  money  and  mills  coming  over  the  sea. 

I  have  seen  your  Bonanza,  your  great  Cariboo  ; 
I've  been  in  your  tunnels,  but  everything's  new  ; 
I've  stood  at  the  face  of  your  wondrous  Lowhee, 
And  find  that  the  prospects  are  good  as  can  be. 

Don't  think  that  Victoria  will  give  you  a  hand, 
Nor  furnish  a  baw-bee  to  prospect  your  land. 
The  miner  must  prospect  and  show  the  gold  free, 
Then  capital  comes  from  way  over  the  sea. 

Now  take  my  advice,  and  I'm  in  with  you,  too, 
Just  stick  to  your  ledges,  whatever  you  do  ; 
Don't  worry  and  fret,  if  at  first  you  don't  see 
A  fortune  in  sight,  for  it's  coming  to  thee. 
BARKEKVILLE,  B.  C. 


WILD  BILL'S   GKAVE. 

ON  the  side  of  the  hill,  between  Whitewood  and  Deadwood, 
At  the  foot  of  the  pine  stump,  there  lies  a  lone  grave, 

Environed  with  rocks  and  with  pine  trees  and  redwood, 
Where  the  wild  roses  bloom  o'er  the  breast  of  the  brave. 

A  mantle  of  brushwood  the  green  sward  incloses, 
The  green  boughs  are  waving  far  up  overhead  ; 

While  under  the  sod  and  the  flow' rets  reposes 
The  brave  and  the  dead. 


50  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

Did  I  know  him  in  life  ?     Yes,  as  brother  knows  brother  ; 

I  knew  him  and  loved  him — 'twas  all  I  could  give, 
My  love.    'But  the  fact  is  we  loved  one  another, 

And  either  would  die  that  the  other  might  live. 
Kough  in  his  ways?     Yes  ;  but  kind  and  good-hearted  ; 

There  wasn't  a  flaw  in  the  heart  of  Wild  Bill, 
And.  well  I  remember  the  day  that  we  started 
That  grave  on  the  hill. 

A  good  scout  ?     I  reckon  there  wasn't  his  equal, 
Both  Fremont  and  Ouster  could  vouch  for  that  fact. 

Quick  as  chain-lightning  with  rifle  or  pistol  — 

And  this  is  what  Ouster  said—-"  Bill  never  backed." 

He  called  me  his  "  kid  " — I  was  only  a  boy  ; 
And  to  ungratefulness  Bill  was  a  stranger, 

Eeady  to  share  every  sorrow  and  joy, 
Brave  hunger  and  danger. 

And  now  let  me  show  you  the  good  that  was  in  him — 

The  letters  he  wrote  to  his  Agnes— his  wife  ; 
Why,  a  look  or  a  smile,  one  kind  word  could  win  him. 

Hear  part  of  this  letter— the  last  of  his  life  : 

"  AGXES  DARLING  ;  If  such  should  be  that  we  never  meet  again,  while  firing 
my  la*t  shot,  I  will  gently  breathe  the  name  of  my  wife — my  Agnes — and  with  a 
kind  wish  even  for  my  enemies,  1  will  make  Ihe  plunge  and  try  to  swim  to  the 
other  shore." 

Oh,  Charity  !  come  fling  your  mantle  about  him  ; 

Judge  him  not  harshly — he  sleeps  'neath  the  sod. 
Custer— brave  Ouster  ! — was  lonely  without  him, 
Even  with  God. 

Charge,  comrades,  charge  !  see  young  Custer  ahead  ! 

His  charger  leaps  forth,  almost  flying  ; 
One  volley  !  and  half  of  his  comrades  are  dead— 

The  other  half  fighting  and  dying  ! 
Let  us  hope,  while  their  dust  is  reposing  beneath 

The  dirge-singing  pines  in  the  mountains, 
That  Christ  has  crowned  each  with  an  evergreen  wreath, 

And  given  them  to  drink  from  His  fountains. 


GUTTER'S  LAST  CHARGE. 
(Taken  from  "  Tic  Tacs,"  by  permission  of  Homer  Lee  Bank-Note  Co.) 


2  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

"  HE  DIED  FOR  ME." 
(  A.S  told  to  me  by  a  veteran  scout  in  the  graveyard  of  a  frontier  military  post.) 

I  TELL  ye,  pard,  in  this  Western  wild 

As  a  gineral  thing  the  dirt's  jist  piled 

In  a  rather  permisouous  sort  o'  way 

On  top  of  a  private  soldier's  clay  ; 

An'  one'd  think  from  the  marble  shaft, 

An'  the  flowers  a-wavin'  above  the  graft, 

That  a  major-gineral  holds  that  tomb  ; 

But  the  corpse  down  thar  wore  a  private's  plume. 

I  remember  the  day  they  swore  Mead  in  ; 
He  war'  pale-complected  an'  rather  thin  ; 
He'd  bin  w'at  they  call  a  trampin'  beat, 
An'  enlisted  fur  wanto'  somethin'  to  eat. 
It's  allus  the  case  that  a  new  recruit 
Is  the  butt  o'  tricks  from  the  older  fruit ; 
An'  the  way  the  boys  tormented  the  cuss 
"War'  real  down  wicked  an'  scandalous. 

He  tuk  it  all  with  a  sickly  smile, 
An'  said  if  they'd  wait  till  arter  awhile, 
When  he  got  fed  up  in  some  sort  o'  trim, 
It  moughtn't  be  healthy  to  fool  with  him. 
An'  I  knowed  by  the  look  o'  the  feller's  eye — 
Fur  all  he  war'  back'ard  an'  rather  shy- 
That  behind  his  skeleton  sort  o'  breast 
A  heart  like  a  lion's  found  a  nest. 

One  night  as  the  guard  at  twelve  o'clock 
Relieved  the  sentinel  over  the  stock, 
The  corporal  seed  a  sort  of  a  glare 
From  toward  the  officers'  quarters  there. 
The  alarm  was  raised  an'  the  big  gun  fired, 
An'  the  soldiers,  not  more'n  half  attired, 
Cum  rushin'  out  on  the  barrack  ground, 
With  a  wild  an'  excited  sort  o'  bound. 


The  commander's  quarters  war'  all  afire, 
An'  the  flames  a-mountin'  higher  an*  higher, 
An'  what  with  the  yells  o'  men,  an'  the  shrieks 
O'the  officers'  wives,  with  whitish  cheeks, 
An'  the  roar  o'  the  flames,  an'  devilish  light 
Illuminatin'  the  pitch-dark  night, 
'Twar'  sich  a  sight  as  I've  of  en  thought 
You  could  see  in  hell  w'eii  it's  bilin'  hot  ! 

An'  then  with  a  wild,  despairin'  yell 

The  commander  shouted,  "My  God,  where's  Nell?' 

His  wife  responded,  "She^s  in  her  bed  !  ' 

Then  fell  to  the  ground  like  a  person  dead. 

Up  through  the  roof  the  mad  flames  roared, 

An'  the  blindin'  smoke  in  a  dense  mass  poured 

Through  every  crevice  an'  crack,  till  a  cloud 

Hung  above  like  a  death-black  funeral  shroud. 

(It  mightn't  be  out  o'  place  to  state, 

As  kinder  accountin'  fur  this  Mead's  fate, 

That  Nell  war'  an  angel,  ten  year  old, 

With  a  heart  as  pure  as  the  virgin  gold, 

An'  she  had  a  kind  of  an  angel  trick 

Of  readin'  an'  sich  like  to  the  sick  ; 

An'  many's  the  dainty  her  hands  'd  bear 

To  Mead  w'en  he  lay  in  the  hospital  there.) 

My  God  !     It  war'  'nuff  to  raise  the  hair 

On  the  head  of  a  marble  statue  :  there 

Stood  a  crowd  of  at  least  two  hundred  men, 

None  darin'  to  enter  that  fiery  pen — 

Men  that  war'  brave  on  an  Injun  trail, 

Whose  courage  war'  never  known  to  fail  ; 

But  to  enter  that  buildin'  was  certain  death, 

So  they  stood  thar'  starin',  and  held  their  breath. 

Then  all  at  once,  with  an  eager  cry 
An'  a  bulldog  look  in  his  flashin'  eye, 
This  Mead  rushed  up  to  the  wailin'  band, 
An'  a  paper  thrust  in  the  colonel's  hand  ; 


54  TIIE'POET  SCOUT. 

"  My  mother's  address,"  he  said,  an'  then 
He  sort  o'  smiled  on  the  crowd  o'  men, 
An',  jist  like  a  flash  o'  lightnin',  shot 
Through  the  door  right  inter  the  seethin'  pot. 

With  a  yell  of  horror  the  crowd  looked  on, 

Fur  they  thought  with  him  it  war'  good-by,  John  ; 

But  a  half  a  minute  after  the  dash 

An  up-stairs  winder  burst  with  a  crash, 

An'  thar'  stood  Mead  like  a  smilin'  saint, 

The  gal  in  his  arms  in  a  deathlike  faint, 

An'  he  yelled  fur  a  rope,  an'  let  'er  down 

To  terry  firmy  (w'ich  means  the  groun'). 

Then  he  tied  the  rope  to  the  winder  sash 

Fur  to  foller  down,  but  thar'  cum  a  crash, 

An'  the  blazm'  roof,  with  a  fearful  din, 

Thro  wed  the  boy  to  the  groun'  as  it  tumbled  in  ! 

We  carried  him  'way  from  the  fearful  heat, 

A-hopin'  the  noble  heart  still  beat  ; 

But  the  old  post  surgeon  shook  his  head, 

An'  said  with  a  sigh  that  Mead  war'  dead  ! 

***** 
'T'wan't  very  long  afore  little  Nell 
Got  over  the  shock,  an'  as  soon  as  well 
She  circulated  among  the  men, 
With  a  sheet  o'  paper, an'  ink,  an'  pen, 
An'  axed  each  one  fur  to  give  his  mite 
In  remembrance  o'  Mead's  brave  work  that  night; 
An'  as  the  result  this  monument  stands, 
'Mid  flowers  planted  by  Nell's  own  hands. 

An'  every  evenin'  she  walks  up  here, 

The  boys  all  think  fur  to  drop  a  tear; 

An'  I've  seed  her,  too,  on  her  knees  right  there, 

With  her  face  turned  up'ards,  as  if  in  prayer. 

You'll  see,  that  line  at  the  top's  to  tell 

As  how  the  stone  war'  "  ERECTED  BY  NELL." 

An'  down  at  the  bottom  thar'  you'll  see 

Some  Bible  readin' — "HE  DIED  FOR  ME." 


A   MOUNTAIN   GIRL'S   LETTER. 


A  MOUNTAIN  GIRL'S  LETTER. 

DEAK  Tobe,  since  you  left  for  the  mountains 

Old  Nick  has  broke  loose  on  the  ranch, 
And  that's  why  I've  squatted  to  write  you 

The  news  of  the  last  avalanche. 
For  I'm  yours— and  I'm  yours  with  a  vengeance- 

And  I  don't  give  a  snap  for  the  gang, 
Since  we  plighted  our  love  to  each  other 

In  the  wild  mountain  song  that  we  sang. 

So  Tobe,  dear  old  boy,  don't  you  worry, 

No  matter  what  this  may  disclose, 
While  I  look  at  the  flower  you  left  me, 

And  you  take  a  peep  at  the  rose. 
Tho'  faded  and  dead,  they  remind  us 

Of  the  evening  we  parted  last  fall ; 
You  whispered,  "  My  wild  rose,  God  bless  you  !" 

And  I  — well,  I  blubbered —  that's  all. 

And  now,  while  I  sit  in  the  arbor, 

The  spot  where  our  lips  snapped  apart — 
I  felt  just  the  same  as  that  evening 

When  my  throat  was  chock-full  of  my  heart. 
The  lump  has  gone  down,  but  I'd  rather 

Be  choked  half  to  death  with  you  here 
Than  swim  in  a  tank  of  co-log- ney, 

When  you,  my  own  boy,  wasn't  near. 

Well,  you  know,  Tobe,  before  we  got  spooney 

(Of  course  you  remember  all  that), 
And  the  rooster  who  wore  the  eye-glasses 

And  the  two-and-a-half-story  hat ; 
And  you  know  how  I  hated  the  donkey, 

With  his  fine  hair  and  screwed-up  mustache  ; 
But,  Lord  !  how  he  monkeyed  around  me, 

While  up  to  my  elbows  in  wash. 


56  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

And,  Tobe,  you'd  a  busted  your  waist-band 

If  you'd  seen  me  a-splashin'  the  suds, 
While  the  bubbles  just  sacheyed  around  him 

And  dropped  on  his  dudey-like  duds. 
And  dad,  he  was  watchin'  my  capers, 

And  soon  as  the  dandy  vamoused 
I  felt  kinder  skeered  fur  a  minnit, 

And  wished  I  could  fly  to  your  roost. 

You  know  the  old  folks  often  told  me 

My  face  was  a  fortune  itself  ; 
They  didn't  like  you  worth  a  copper, 

And  wanted  you  laid  on  the  shelf. 
They  tried  to  kick  up  sich  a  racket, 

And  swore  they  would  keep  us  apart, 
But,  golly,  in  spite  of  the  kickin', 

You  just  waltzed  away  with  my  heart. 

But,  pshaw  !  you  had  hardly  got  started 

When  the  no-account  snob  ambled  'round  ; 
Oh,  jimminy,  wasn't  he  lovin', 

And  didn't  he  look  like  a  hound  ! 
As  thin  as  a  coyote,  and  skinny, 

And  sportin'  a  button  bokay— 
A  regular  poor  piece  of  "  croppin  " 

That  old  Satan  could  skeersely  assay. 

And  then  he  begun  his  soft  nonsense. 

And  said  how  he  come  from  "the  Hub." 
Said  I,  "If  you  don't  leave  the  parlor 

My  sweetheart  will  draw  to  a  club." 
Which,  he  said,  kinder  mixed  him  a  little, 

And  he  didn't  just  quite  understand, 
So  I  showed  him  a  flush,  and  I  whispered 

That  you  held  a  pretty  good  hand. 

But,  jokin'  aside,  boy,  he's  wealthy, 
Owns  stock  in  the  big  Torrence  mine, 

Drives  a  fine  pair  of  A  1  Comanches, 
And  I  reckon  he  works  the  best  wine. 


A   MOUNTAIN   GIRL'S   LETTER.  57 

But,  you  see,  he  got  thick  with  the  old  'uns, 

And  wanted  to  marry  me  here, 
But  you  bet  that  I  busted  that  racket, 

And  kicked  like  a  two-year-old  steer. 

I  jest  made  him  waltz  to  my  music, 

And,  make  no  mistake,  it  was  real ; 
I  borrowed  that  little  self-cocker, 

So  often  discharged  by  young  Teal. 
I  knew  it  would  cause  a  sensation 

In  the  house  of  old  Buckshot  McGee, 
But  somebody  promised  Tobias, 

And,  don't  you  forget  it,  that's  we. 

But  now  comes  the  worst  of  the  racket, 

I'm  in  for  a  long,  weary  day, 
I'm  locked  in  the  room  near  the  attic, 

And  I  reckon  the  devil's  to  pay  ; 
'Cause  I  whispered  to  father  and  mother 

That  their  dandy  I  never  would  wed, 
And  that's  why  I  borrowed  Teal's  whistler, 

To  blow  off  the  top  of  his  head. 

That's  why  I'm  shut  up  in  my  chamber, 

But,  Tobies  dear,  that's  nothing  new, 
For  many's  the  night,  my  old  fellow, 

Have  I  not  been  shut  up  with  you. 
That  is,  in  my  dreams  I  have  been  there, 

So,  Tobe,  I  must  go  to  my  bed, 
And  I'll  never  say  yes  to  the  dandy, 

Nor  go  back  on  a  word  I  have  said. 

So  be  easy,  you  dear,  good  old  miner, 

Till  I  meet  you  again  by  the  well, 
And  I'll  marry  my  Tobe,  the  old-timer, 

And  that's  what's  the  matter  with 

NELL. 


58  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

TO  MRS.  I.  P.  JENKS. 

(Written  in  her  scrap-book  on  her  wedding  day,  April  16,  1884.) 

THE  marriage  bells  have  just  ceased  ringing, 

And  you  have  ceased  to  be  a  maid  ; 
And  little  birds  are  sweetly  singing 

For  you  and  Ike  a  serenade. 
All  Nature  seems  to  smile  serenely, 

The  sunbeams  kiss  the  budding  rose, 
While  Ike  exclaims  :   "Ye  gods,  how  queenly  !" 

As  inward  love's  pure  streamlet  flows. 

And  oh  !  I  pray  that  love  unceasing, 

Pure  and  holy,  shall  prevail, 
Year  by  year  its  strength  increasing, 

As  you  journey  on  life's  trail. 
Cloudless  skies  and  sunny  weather, 

Koses  budding  on  the  way  ; 
Hand  in  hand  through  life  together— 

Heart-strings  tuned  in  love's  sweet  lay. 

And  to  Ike,  my  boy  pard,  the  following  impromptu  lines  are  affectionately 

inscribed  : 

MEMORIES. 

PARTNER  of  my  boyhood  days, 

When  hearts  were  young  and  wild, 
Companion  of  my  wicked  ways, 
When  up  the  hills  and  down  the  braes 
The  farmer  stood  in  perfect  maze  ; 

I'll  draw  the  picture  mild  ! 

The  farmer  stood—  the  dog  did  not : 

We  ran  o'er  fields  and  ditches  ; 
To-day,  methinks,  I  see  the  spot, 
And  you  could  point  it  out,  I  wot, 
That  fence  whereon  the  bulldog  got 

The  half-sole  of  your  breeches. 


TO   MRS.    I.    P.   JENKS.  59 

And  as  these  scenes  come  back  anew 

I  see  again  my  father's  frown, 
And  while  the  switch  was  hard  on  you, 
To  me  the  club  was  nothing  new  ; 
For  weeks  I  had  to  twist  and  screw — 

It  hurt  me  to  sit  down. 

But  ours  was  not  a  safe  retreat, 

And  soon  we  left  the  old  home  nest, 
And  trudged  along  with  weary  feet, 
In  rain  and  storm,  in  snow  and  sleet, 
And  for  a  crust  of  bread  to  eat 

With  saw-buck  did  we  wrest. 

And  then  it  was  our  mother's  voice 

Would  wake  us  from  our  dreams — 
We  chose,  '*  because  we  had  no  choice," 
To  make  our  mothers'  heart  rejoice — 
And  soon  their  wicked  wayward  boys 

Pulled  back  against  the  stream. 

And  so,  boy  pard,  we've  stemmed  the  tide, 

Tho'  few  the  laurels  won, 
And  you  are  happy  with  your  bride, 
While  mine  is  smiling  by  my  side. 
God  grant  no  evil  may  betide 

Till  God  shall  say,  "Well  done." 

And  then,  if  up  the  golden  tree 

Successfully  we  climb. 
Our  angel  mothers  we  shall  see, 
And  boys  who  fought  with  you  and  me 
To  make  God's  flag  and  country  free  : 
Ah  !  that  will  be  sublime. 

Your  boy  pard, 

"  CAPTAIN  JACK." 


60  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


SOMEBODY. 

OH,  would  I  were  somebody's  darling, 

And  somebody  cared  for  me, 
And  that  I  was  loved  by  somebody, 

And  somebody  sat  on  my  knee. 
And  then  perhaps  that  somebody 

Would  be  somebody  very  dear, 
And  life  would  be  blessed  with  somebody, 

And  somebody  make  it  less  drear. 

Alas  !  I  was  loved  by  somebody, 

And  somebody  kissed  my  brow, 
And  I  smiled  when  a  boy  on  somebody, 

And  somebody  smiles  on  me  now. 
That  dear,  sweet  face  of  somebody, 

Of  somebody  true  and  brave, 
The  sunburst  of  hope  for  somebody 

That  laid  her  away  in  the  grave. 

And  the  angel  face  of  somebody 

Seems  watching  over  me  still. 
And  though  I  weep  for  somebody, 

As  I  journey  over  life's  hill, 
I  know  I  am  loved  by  somebody, 

And  somebody  wishes  me  joy, 
For  I  had  a  love  for  somebody, 

That  somebody  had  for  her  boy. 

She  is  there  with  the  angels,  somebody, 

Who  watched  over  me  when  a  child, 
An  angel  on  earth  was  somebody, 

When  I  was  youthful  and  wild. 
But  God  had  called  for  somebody, 

And  somebody's  work  is  done, 
And  somebody  waits  with  the  angels, 

To  welcome  her  wayward  son. 


THE   BUKIAL   OF   WILD   BILL. 


61 


THE   BURIAL   OF  WILD   BILL. 

(To  Charley  Utter — Colorado  Charley.') 

UNDER  the  sod  in  the  prairie-land 

We  have  laid  him  down  to  rest, 
With  many  a  tear  from  the  sad,  rough  throng 

And  the  friends  he  loved  the  best  ; 
And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  was  heard 

As  over  the  earth  we  trod, 
And  many  an  eye  was  filled  with  tears 

As  we  covered  him  with  the  sod. 

Under  the  sod  in  the  prairie-land 

We  have  laid  the  good  and  the  true — 

An  honest  heart  and  a  noble  scout 
Has  bade  us  a  last  adieu. 


62  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

No  more  his  silvery  laugh  will  ring, 

His  spirit  has  gone  to  God  ; 
Around  his  faults  let  Charity  cling 

While  you  cover  him  with  the  sod. 

Under  the  sod  in  the  land  of  gold 

We  have  laid  the  fearless  Bill  ; 
We  called  him  Wild,  yet  a  little  child 

Gould  bend  Ms  iron  will. 
With  generous  heart  he  freely  gave 

To  the  poorly  clad,  unshod— 
Think  of  it,  pards— of  his  noble  traits  — 

While  you  cover  him  with  the  sod 

Under  the  sod  in  Deadwood  Gulch 

You  have  laid  his  last  remains  ; 
No  more  his  manly  form  will  hail 

The  red  man  on  the  plains. 
And,  Charley,  may  Heaven  bless  you  ! 

You  gave  him  a  "  bully  good  send  ;" 
Bill  was  a  friend  to  you,  pard, 

And  you  were  his  last,  best  friend. 

You  buried  him  'neath  the  old  pine  tree, 

In  that  little  world  of  ours, 
His  trusty  rifle  by  his  side — 

His  grave  all  strewn  with  flowers  ; 
His  manly  form  in  sweet  repose", 

That  lovely  silken  hair — 
I  tell  you,  pard,  it  was  a  sight, 

That  face  so  white  and  fair  ! 

And  while  he  sleeps  beneath  the  sod 

His  murderer  goes  free,* 
Released  by  a  perjured,  gaming  set, 

Who'd  murder  you  and  me — 

*  Tried  and  released  by  a  lot  of  petty  gamblers,  but  afterward  arrested  at 
Laramie  City,  and  taken  to  Yankton,  Dakota,  tried  and  hung. 


63 


Whose  coward  hearts  dare  never  meet 
A  brave  man  on  the  square. 

Well,  pard,  they'll  find  a  warmer  clime 
Than  they  ever  found  out  there. 

Hell  is  full  of  just  such  men  ; 

And  if  Bill  is  above  to-day, 
The  Almighty  will  have  enough  to  do 

To  keep  him  from  going  away — 
That  is,  from  making  a  little  scout 

To  the  murderers'  home  below  ; 
And  if  old  Peter  will  let  him  out, 

He  can  clean  out  the  ranch,  I  know. 


I'M  SAD  TO-NIGHT. 

Lines  suggested  by  the  following  remark  from  a  young  lady  at  a  Christmas 
party  :  "  Captain,  you  seem  happy  always." 

I'M  sad  to-night,  and  yet  my  face 
Is  only  marked  with  cunning  smiles, 

For  looking  in  the  glass  I  trace 
In  every  feature  false  beguiles. 

I'm  sad  to-night,  and  yet  they  say, 
Because  I  dance  and  laugh  and  sing, 

That  I  am  always,  oh  !  so  gay, 

And  laugh  with  such  a  merry  ring. 

But  I  would  scorn  to  show  my  grief, 

I  use  my  muscle  and  my  brain  ; 
For  work  will  always  bring  relief, 

And  sunshine  comes  just  after  rain. 

And  though  the  game  is  hard  to  find, 

I  have  no  time  to  weep  or  wail  ; 
Let  those  who  will  remain  behind, 

I'll  still  pursue  the  same  old  trail. 


64  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

I'm  sad  to-night,  and  yet  just  now 
A  hundred  merry  voices  rang  ; 

There's  perspiration  on  each  brow, 
From  laughing  at  the  song  I  sang. 

I'm  sad  to-night — why  do  I  sing? 

Because  God  gave  me  voice  and  power  ! 
And  oft  I've  made  the  woodland  ring, 

While  all  alone  with  some  wild  flower. 

And  often  on  the  lonely  trail 

I've  bursted  out  with  something  new  ; 

I  started  with  a  song  from  Yale, 
I'm  singing  yet  in  Cariboo. 

I'm  sad  to-night,  and  yet  should  I 
Let  others  know  one  care  or  sorrow, 

While  hope  is  whispering  by-and-by  ? 
No  !  no  !  'twill  be  all  right  to-morrow. 

I'm  sad  to-night,  but  sweet  ambition 

Tells  me  that  I  must  hold  my  own  ; 
And  while  lasts  the  ammunition 
I  will  hold  the  fort  alone. 

For  other  skies  have  clouded  o'er  me, 
And  other  moons  have  shown  less  bright, 

But  thou,  fair  star  of  hope  before  me, 
Hath  always  been  my  beacon  light. 

And  so  I'll  tarry  with  thee  longer, 
Ever  faithful,  firm  and  true, 

With  confidence  still  growing  stronger, 
In  thy  high  hills,  fair  Cariboo  ! 

And  I  believe  with  those  old-timers 
That  there  is  luck  for  thee  and  thine — 

Lucky  years  for  all  our  miners, 
Forty,  Sixty,  Seventy-nine. 


NATURE'S  TREASURES.  65 


NATURE'S  TREASURES. 

DEEP  within  her  breast  doth  Nature  hide 

Her  precious  ores— her  silver  and  her  gold, 
While  rough,  uncouth  upon  the  mountain -side, 

Is  found  the  tempting  float— a  tale  untold. 
The  hardy  pioneer  with  eager  eye 

Scans  every  boulder  with  a  wistful  glance, 
And  tho'  a  hundred  times  he  fail,  will  try 

Another  trip  —there' s  still  another  chance. 

With  hopeful  heart  in  Nature's  solitude, 

He  prospects  hill  and  gulch,  and  every  night 
In  his  abode  uncouth  perchance  and  rude, 

He  dreams  of  home  and  wife,  and  prospects  bright. 
And  time  rolls  on,  his  form  is  bending  low, 

The  fire  has  gone  from  out  those  bright  blue  eyes, 
His  chestnut  hair  has  turned  as  white  as  snow, 

And  yet,  half  blind,  he  finds  a  wealthy  prize. 

And  what  is  wealth  or  what  is  influence 

If  life  has  scarce  an  hour  for  happy  thought  ? 
Would  Nature's  vaults  disclosed  half  recompense 

The  ravages  that  care  and  toil  have  wrought  ? 
The  miner  leaves  his  happy  home  and  wife 

To  share  his  love  with  fashion's  yellow  god, 
And  some  I've  known,  and  shared  their  toil  and  strife, 

In  Chloride,  now  lie  sleeping  'neath  the  sod. 

They  came  for  gold,  but  those  were  early  days, 

When  beasts  of  prey,  in  shape  of  fiends,  ran  wild  ; 
When  "  noble  reds"  were  sung  in  minstrel  lays, 

And  none  were  noble  save  the  prairie  child. 
Oh  !  Mother  Nature,  if  thou  didst  conceive 

And  bear  such  offering  as  they  claim  for  you, 
Disclose  thy  treasure-vaults,  and  while  you  grieve 

Thy  breast  will  soften  with  thy  tears  of  dew. 


66  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

Oh  !  if  we  only  knew,  and  knowing  cared, 

To  share  those  precious  gems  in  Nature's  breast, 
The  child  of  want  and  woe  would  then  be  reared 

In  love  and  peace,  and  none  would  be  distressed. 
But  not  until  her  breast  is  torn  apart 

With  cruel  blows  and  giant's  powerful  blast 
Will  she  disclose  the  secrets  of  her  breast, 

And  then  monopoly  will' hold  them  fast. 

A  curse  be  on  the  men  who  hoard  their  stores 

While  want  and  woe  and  heavy  hearts  repine, 
And  begging  but  a  crust  at  their  back  doors, 

Hear  sounds  of  revelry  and  popping  wine  ; 
But  ignorance  is  bliss,  and  these  poor  souls, 

Deformities  of  want  and  woe  and  shame, 
In  blissful  ignorance  and  flowing  bowls 

Attempt  to  drown  their  sorrows— who's  to  blame  ? 

God  knows  I  speak  the  truth  when  I  declare 

I  would  not  change  my  heart  for  wealth  of  Gould  ; 
For  if  I  tried  to  climb  the  golden  stair, 

Some  honest  soul  would  tell  me  I  was  fool'd. 
If  God  is  good,  and  surely  He  must  be, 

I'll  take  my  chances  with  the  poor  and  meek  ; 
And  if  our  hills  will  share  their  wealth  with  me, 

I'll  fight  monopoly — and  assist  the  weak. 

And  if  when  all  earth's  weary  work  for  me 

Is  ended,  and  I  lay  me  down  to  die, 
A  thousand  careworn  faces  I  shall  see 

Made  happy  when  they  come  to  say  good-by, 
And  then  if  up  the  golden  stair  I  climb, 

When  Gabriel  toots  I'll  whisper  through  his  tin 
I  scattered  gold  and  sunshine  down  below, 

St.  Peter  sure  will  bid  me  waltz  right  in. 


MY   MOUNTAIN   HOME.  67 


MY  MOUNTAIN  HOME. 

FAE  beyond  the  rolling  prairie 

Is  a  home  more  dear  to  me 
Than  your  grand  and  stately  mansions, 

Or  your  cottage  by  the  sea  ; 
In  a  little  dell  that's  girdled 

By  the  mountains,  rocks  and  trees, 
And  the  notes  of  Nature's  songsters 

Making  music  in  the  breeze. 

Why  I  love  my  shady  woodland, 

Why  I  love  each  flowery  dell, 
Where,  beside  my  trusty  comrades, 

I  have  fought  where  many  fell  ; 
Where  so  oft  alone  I've  wandered, 

Sat  and  mused  the  whole  day  long, 
To  the  music  of  the  songsters 

I  have  sang  my  humble  song. 

It  is  grand  in  Nature' s  grandeur, 

Thus  to  live  and  love  as  well, 
Where  around  the  blazing  camp-fire 

Stories  we  would  hear  and  tell, 
And,  with  merry  voices  ringing, 

Comrades  joined  me  in  my  rhymes, 
While  we  sang  of  by-gone  pleasures 

And  the  days  of  other  times. 

Oh,  how  happy  in  the  woodland, 

Or  beside  some  mountain  brook, 
Where  so  oft  the  speckled  beauties 

Dangled  shining  on  my  hook  ; 
Where  the  deer  and  elk  were  grazing, 

Where  the  buffalo  loved  to  stray, 
Birds  on  every  sheet  of  water, 

And  life  seemed  a  long  day's  plajr. 


68  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

Then  at  night,  when  all  was  quiet, 

How  my  friends  would  gather  near, 
In  the  little  old  log  cabin, 

Where  each  hardy  pioneer 
Used  to  laugh  and  shout  so  hearty 

To  the  banjo's  merry  tone — 
Shall  we  meet  no  more,  dear  comrades, 

In  that  little  mountain  home  ? 


SPKING  IN   THE  BLACK   HILLS. 

BEAUTIFUL  Spring  in  the  highlands  of  nature, 

Snow  on  the  hill-tops  and  grass  in  the  vale  ; 
Sunshine  is  beaming  on  each  living  creature, 

And  not  e'en  one  sorrow  our  joys  tu  assail. 
The  pine  trees  are  bowing  and  bending  before  us, 

The  miner  is  building  his  new  cabin  home  ; 
And  the  birds  seem  to  carol  in  musical  chorus, 

"  Angels  watch  o'er  you  where'er  you  may  roam." 

Beautiful  Spring,  you  will  loosen  the  fountains, 

Long  sealed  by  the  frost  in  the  valleys  and  hills  ; 
And  down  from  the  tops  of  the  mightiest  mountains 

Will  dance  little  streamlets  and  murmuring  rills. 
Blessings  will  follow  — we  feel  it,  believe  it  — 

If  men  will  be  faithful  and  work  hand  in  hand, 
Though  many  will  tempt  you,  while  working,  to  leave  it, 

But  don't  you  be  fooled,  for  there's  gold  in  this  land. 

Beautiful  Spring,  you  will  bring  us  sweet  flowers  ; 

Thousands  will  gather  from  far  o'er  the  land, 
And  many  will  find  bright  homes  in  these  bowers, 

And,  seeing  the  grandeur,  themselves  grow  more  grand. 
Farmers  will  come  with  their  ploughs  and  their  harrows, 

The  bright  golden  grain  will  be  waving  ere  long  ; 
While  civilization  will  bury  the  arrows, 

And  the  red  man  will  sing  his  last  sad  death. song. 


70  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


THE  WELCOME  HOME. 

HOME  again  !      Each  stalwart  comrade 

Breathes  his  honest  welcome  back. 
•'  Dog  my  cats,  we's  glad  to  see  you, 

Laws-ee.     Whar  ye  bin  to,  Jack  ? 
Why,  old  pard,  we've  bin  a-thinkin', 

Somehow,  ye  had  lost  yer  ha'r, 
An'  you  bet  yer  life,  we  missed  ye 

At  our  meetin's  over  thar." 

Not  one  buckskin  boy  among  them — 

Not  a  man  in  all  that  throng — 
But  was  glad  to  gaze  upon  me, 

I  had  been  away  so  long. 
How  my  heart,  with  fond  emotion, 

Beat  that  night  at  Modie's  store, 
When  the  boys,  with  pure  devotion, 

Gathered  round  their  chief  once  more  ! 

There  was  Bob  and  Jule  and  Franklin, 

Bill  and  California  Joe — 
Every  man  an  Indian  fighter, 

Knowing  all  a  scout  should  know. 
But  my  songs  and  acts  had  won  them, 

And  amid  their  merry  shouts, 
In  the  Buffalo  Gap  entrenchments, 

I  was  hailed  their  chief  of  scouts. 

Whether  in  the  year  succeeding 

I  deserved  the  name  or  not, 
By  our  pioneers  and  miners 

I  shall  never  be  forgot. 
Never  did  the  wily  redskin 

Find  me  napping  by  the  way, 
And  I  tried  to  do  my  duty 

In  the  camp  or  in  the  fray. 
CUSTEK  CITY,  D.  T. 


HOOD'S   OHILDBEN.  71 

HOOD'S  CHILDEEN. 

[San  Francisco  Post.] 

When  the  ex-Confederate  General  Hood  and  his  wife  died  at  New  Orleans, 
from  yellow  fever,  leaving  nine  children,  the  members  of  the  Grand  Army 
throughout  the  United  States  were  the  first  to  tender  benefits  and  organize  fairs 
for  their  relief.  Lincoln  Post,  of  San  Francisco,  procured  the  Baldwin  Theatre 
for  one  night,  and  the  entire  company,  including  James  O'Neill,  Lewis  Morrison, 
C.  B.  Bishop,  and  others  volunteered,  as  did  also  T.  W.  Keene,  then  leading  man 
at  the  California  Theatre.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  preceding  the  entertain 
ment,  Colonels  Lyon,  C.  Mason  Ktnne,  of  Lincoln  Post,  G.  A.  R.,  and  Fleurnoy,  of 
Texas,  an  ex  Confederate,  waited  upon  Captain  Jack  Crawford,  and  requested  him 
to  write  a  poem  appropriate  for  the  occasion;  and  "  Remember,  Jack,"  said 
Colonel  Fleurnoy,  "  that  we-uns  as  did  the  fightin'  have  nothin'  agin  you-uns  as  fit 
us."  "Wai,"  said  Jack,  in  that  peculiar  vernacular  of  the  West  and  South,  "  I 
reckon,  pard,  as  how  I  are  right  smart  posted  as  to  that,"  and  with  an  "Adios, 
comrades — I'll  try,"  went  immediately  to  his  room.  On  Ihe  next  night,  Col. 
Kinne  announced  that  Captain  Jack  Crawford  wtts  to  read  a  poem.  T.  W.  Keene, 
to-day's  greatest  young  tragedian,  held  Jack's  manuscript,  and  actually  pushed 
him  before  the  curtain.  Jack,  with  voice  trembling  with  fear  and  emotion, 
stood  before  the  grandest  audience  that  ever  sat  in  the  Baldwin,  while  in  the 
front  orchestra  seats  sat  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  in  uniform,  above  them 
hanging  a  silk  banner  of  blue  and  gray,  and  intertwined  with  the  Stars  and 
Stripes,  on  which  was  inscribed:  "  The  Blue  and  the  Gray  under  one  Flag." 
Jack  was  dressed  in  his  field  buckskin  suit;  and  looking  all  over  the  great 
mass  of  humanity  in  the  galleries  and  below,  his  eyes  resting  on  the  Blue  and  the 
Gray,  he  began  : 

"My  comrades  in  Blue,  my  brothers  in  Gray,  your  committee  waited  upon 
me  yesterday  and  requested  me  to  write  something  worthy  of  this  occasion.  I 
submit  the  folio  wing  impromptu  verses  in  Fraternity,  Charity,  and  Loyalty  : 

•'  DEAE  comrades  and  friends  in  the  golden  land, 

You  may  say  I'm  rough,  you  may  call  me  wild, 
But  I've  got  a  heart  and  a  willing  hand 

To  feel  and  to  work  for  a  soldier's  child. 
Do  you  think  I  ask  on  which  side  he  fought  ? 

If  man  and  soldier,  his  record  was  good  ; 
For  though  our  Union  was  dearly  bought, 

All  hatred  is  buried  with  Hooker  and  Hood. 


72  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

"  And,  comrades,  I'll  tell  you  right  here,  to-night, 

The  men  most  bitter  against  the  Gray 
Are  those  who  never  were  seen  in  a  fight, 

But  who  always  got  sick  on  a  fighting  day. 
With  soldiers,  my  friends,  it  is  not  so  : 

They  respect  each  other,  the  Gray  and  the  Blue  ; 
Nor  are  they  ashamed  that  the  world  shall  know 

How  they  stood  by  their  colors,  brave  men  and  true. 

"  Was  Jackson  ashamed  when  he  knelt  to  pray 

For  the  cause  which  he  thought  before  Heaven  was  just, 
While  marching  his  half-starved  boys  in  Gray, 

On  an  ear  of  corn  and  a  single  crust  ? 
Was  Lee  ashamed  when  he  tendered  his  sword 

To  Grant,  who  refused  the  warrior's  steel  ? 
Who  said,  •  Your  horses  shall  be  restored, 

For  braver  never  wore  spurs  to  his  heel.' 

"  Oh  !  generous  hearts,  in  the  Golden  State 

You  are  forging  the  links  of  a  Union  chain, 
That  cables  one  end  at  the  Golden  Gate, 

That  will  circle  the  States  to  the  Gulf-swept  main. 
A  chain  that  will  bind  us,  the  Blue  and  the  Gray, 

In  a  union  of  purpose  the  gods  will  approve, 
In  love  that  grows  strong  in  adversity's  day, 

And  hearts  that  will  stand  by  the  flag  that  we  love. 

"The  past— it  is  dead  !    But  we  cannot  forget  it, 

And,  comrades,  we  wouldn't  forget  if  we  could  ; 
As  for  myself,  I  shall  never  regret  it, 

This  poor  little  service  I  render  for  Hood. 
His  loved  ones  will  not  be  distressed  nor  discarded, 

And  to-night  I  am  proud  of  a  share  in  the  stock, 
And  shall  feel,  as  a  soldier,  I'm  fully  rewarded 

By  one  little  prayer  from  his  innocent  flock. 

"  One  little  prayer  from  the  loved  ones  we  foster, 
His  latest  bequest  to  his  comrades  in  peace, 

As  the  pale  hand  of  death  wrote  his  name  on  the  roster 
And  the  angel  on  guard  gave  his  spirit  release. 


SOME   DAY.  73 

"Oh,  comrades,  let  charity's  mantle  enfold  them, 

Old  Abe  had  no  malice,  no  hate  in  his  soul  ; 
On  the  ramparts  above  may  we  hope  to  behold  them, 

While  Washington  musters  each  name  on  the  roll." 


SOME   DAY. 

TO   JIM. 

SOME  day — I  cannot  tell  just  now, 

But  hope  and  faith  are  strong, 
And  I  can  see  one  little  ray 

Of  sunshine  through  my  song  ; 
And  clouds  that  overhung  my  sky 

And  part  obscure  it  still, 
Will  leave  bright  sunshine  by  and  by, 

While  climbing  up  life's  hill. 

Some  day — my  soul  inspires  the  thought 

That  makes  my  path  more  clear. 
I  see  one  sweet  forget-me-not, 

Where  all  was  dark  and  drear. 
And  slowly  on  Miss  Fortune's  trail 

With  eager  feet  I'll  press, 
My  motto— no  such  word  as  fail, 

While  courting  Miss  Success. 

Some  day,  while  kneeling  at  her  feet 

Or  sporting  by  her  side, 
I'll  steal  into  her  heart's  retreat 

And  claim  her  for  my  bride. 
And  while  I  hold  her  in  my  arms, 

If  you  should  come  my  way, 
I'll  let  you  gaze  on  all  her  charms 

And  win  her  too — some  day. 


74  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

ONLY  A  MINER  KILLED. 

Although  everything  that  science,  skill,  and  money  can  devise  is  done  to  avert 
accidents,  the  average  of  fatal  ones  in  the  Comstock  is  three  a  week.  "  Three 
men  a  week." 

ONLY  a  miner  killed  ; 

Oh  !  is  that  all  ? 
One  of  the  timbers  caved  ; 

Great  was  the  fall, 
Crushing  another  one 

Shaped  like  his  God. 
Only  a  miner  lad — 
Under  the  sod. 

•  Only  a  miner  killed, 

Just  one  more  dead. 
Who  will  provide  for  them— 

Who  earn  their  bread  ? 
Wife  and  the  little  ones, 

Pity  them,  God, 
,   Their  earthly  father 
Is  under  the  sod. 

Only  a  miner  killed, 

Dead  on  the  spot. 
Poor  hearts  are  breaking 

In  yon  little  cot. 
He  died  at  his  post, 

A  hero  as  brave 
As  any  who  sleep 

In  a  marble-top  grave. 

Only  a  miner  killed  ! 

God,  if  thou  wilt, 
Just  introduce  him 

To  old  Vanderbilt, 
Who,  with  his  millions, 

If  he  is  there, 
Can't  buy  one  interest — 

Even  one  share. 


WE   MEET   AGAIN.  75 

Only  a  miner  killed  ! 

BurjT  him  quick, 
Just  write  his  name  on 

A  piece  of  a  stick, 
No  matter  how  humble 

Or  plain  be  the  grave, 
Beyond  all  are  equal— 

The  master  and  slave. 


WE  MEET  AGAIN. 

The  following,  written  by  Jim  Carlin  while  editing  a  New  Mexico  paper, 
explains  itself: 

"  Once  upon  a  time,  as  the  story  writers  say,  when  the  hostile  Indians  were  en 
deavoring  to  till  a  contract  to  paint  the  whole  western  country  a  bright  red,  the 
writer  was  serving  the  Government  in  a  meek  and  unobtrusive  manner,  his  duties 
being  to  monkey  around  in  advance  of  the  troops  and  take  observations  from  the 
back  of  a  broncho  of  humble  birth  and  modest  demeanor.  He  never  used  a  pack 
animal  to  carry  the  scalps  secured,  and  never  marred  the  stock  of  his  Sharps 
rifle  with  something  like  75,829  notches,  each  notch  representing  an  increase  in 
the  aboriginal  cemetery,  but  worked  as  faithfully  as  he  could  for  $8  a  day  and 
found.  While  engaged  in  this  innocent  pastime  he  first  struck  the  trail  of  Jack 
Crawford,  who  was  running  an  opposition  shop  in  the  same  line  of  business,  and 
in  the  same  territory,  and  the  friendship  there  formed  and  cemented  by  the  dan 
gers  which  surrounded  the  two  men  has  grown  brighter  and  stronger  as  the  jears 
rolled  by. 

"  When  a  cessation  of  hostilities  rendered  that  peculiar  line  of  business  too 
dull  to  interest  an  adventurous  nature,  Jack  took  a  little  whirl  at  the  show  bus 
iness  with  Bill  Cody,  and  his'pardner'  of  the  trail  and  the  camp-fire  went 
back  East,  intending  to  join  the  church,  go  into  the  retail  family  grocery  business 
and  get  rich.  Occasional  letters  passed  between  the  old  friends,  and  they  grad 
ually  drifted  apart,  until  they  entirely  lost  track  of  each  other.  For  over  five 
years  we  heard  not  a  word  from  Jack,  and  began  to  fear  he  had  got  religion 
and  had  had  his  hair  shingled  The  zigzag  cantering  along  of  events  brought 
the  writer  to  New  Mexico,  and  a  few  days  since  he  learned  that  his  old  friend  of 
the  long  ago  was  at  Fort  Craig.  He  at  once  wrote  to  the  old  boy,  and  in  re- 


76  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

sponse,  on  Tuesday  last,  received  the  following,  which  gave  his  heart  a  pretty 
severe  attack  of  the  mumps.  The  letter  opens  just  as  it  is  here  given  and  is  a 
pretty  good  indication  of  the  paralyzing  astonishment  the  '  Poet  Scout'  felt  at 
hearing  from  one  whom  he  thought  might  be  dead  and  trying  to  learn  to  play 
a  golden  harp  in  the  angelic  orchestra  above: 


LORD  BLESS  YOU,  OLD  PARD,  SHAKE  !  !  ! 

"  '  Let  my  heart  speak  out  in  a  simple  song, 

To  the  echo  of  days  long  ago  ; 
Let  my  soul  burst  forth  in  a  friendship  strong, 

That  grows  stronger  as  older  I  grow. 
For  many  a  night  when  I  laid  me  down, 

With  the  star-spangled  heavens  above  me, 
I  thought  of  a  friend  in  a  far-away  town 

Whom  I  loved,  and  I  knew  that  he  loved  me. 

"  *  And  I  dreamed,  oh  !  how  oft,  on  the  lonely  trail, 

When  nature  was  hushed  all  around  me, 
That  your  rifle  came  down,  when  the  foe  would  assail, 

And  when  enemies  tried  to  confound  me  ; 
And  a  little  bird  whispered,  when  I  was  awake, 

''  Your  pard  has  been  dreaming  about  you — " 
God  bless  you,  old  boy,  again  let  us  shake, 

My  muse  has  been  lonely  without  you. 

"  '  So  to-night  I  am  happy,  and  that's  why  I  sing — 

Do  you  catch  the  old  strain  of  the  mountains, 
When  my  voice,  like  a  bird,  made  the  old  woods  ring, 

In  chorus  with  streamlets  and  fountains  ? 
When  the  antelope  stood,  and  the  prairie  wolf  stared, 

And  the  jack-rabbit  failed  e'en  to  start ! 
For  they  knew  by  my  singing  that  peace  was  declared, 

As  the  songs  welled  right  up  from  my  heart. 

"  '  And  that's  how  I  am  feeling  to-night,  dear  old  Jim, 

Though  unhappy  a  short  hour  ago  ; 
But  while  reading  your  letter  my  eyesight  was  dim, 

Though  my  eyes  have  not  failed  me,  I  know — 


MY   LITTLE  NEW   LOG   CABIN   IN   THE   HILLS.         77 

"  'But  a  something  came  up  in  my  throat,  dear  old  boy, 

That  I've  not  felt  before  for  a  year  ; 
But,  Jimmy,  I  swallowed  the  big  lump  of  joy, 

And  I  just  washed  it  down  with  a  tear.'  " 


MY  LITTLE  NEW  LOG  CABIN  IN  THE  HILLS. 

A   PARODY. 

Written  at  Caster  City,  in  the  Black  Hills,  in  the  spring  of  1876,  for  Dick 
Brown,  the  banjo-player,  and  sung  by  Dick  and  I,  ihe  miners  joining  in  the 
chorus,  in  the  camp  and  the  cabin. 

IN  my  little  new  log  cabin  home  my  heart  is  light  and  free, 

While  the  boys  around  me  gather  every  day, 
And  the  sweetest  hours  I  ever  knew  are  those  I'm  passing  now, 

While  the  banjo  makes  sweet  music  to  my  lay. 

Chorus. 
The  scenes  are  changing  every  day,  the  snow  is  nearly  gone, 

And  there's  music  in  the  laughter  of  the  rills  ; 
But  the  dearest  spot  of  all  I  know  is  where  I  love  to  dwell, 

In  my  little  new  log  cabin  in  the  hills. 

While  the  birds  are  sweetly  singing  to  the  coming  of  the  spring, 

And  t^ie  flow'rets  peep  their  heads  from  out  the  sod, 
We  feel  as  gay  and  happy  as  the  songsters  on  the  wing 

Who  are  sending  up  sweet  anthems  to  their  God. 

Chorus. 

Then  let  us  work  with  heart  and  hand,  and  help  each  other  through 

In  this  pretty  little  world  we  call  our  own, 
Whether  building  or  prospecting— yes,  or  fighting  with  the  Sioux, 

For  'tis  hard  sometimes  to  play  your  hand  alone. 

Chorus. 


78  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


FAREWELL,  OLD  CABIN  HOME. 

YE  folks  of  fashion  and  renown, 
Who  live  in  city  and  in  town, 
And  who,  'mid  luxury  and  ease, 
Have  everything  the  heart  to  please, 
And  every  morning  take  your  ride, 
'Mid  worldly  pomp  and  fashion's  pride, 
At  evening  down  the  promenade 
With  lovely  girls  and  hearts  all  glad, 
And  home— ah  !  that  must  be  divine- 
A  little  moss-grown  hut  is  mine. 

Where  the  streamlet's  merry  lay 

Makes  sweet  music  with  its  laughter, 

Dancing,  rippling  day  by  day — 
I  shall  hear  it  ever  after. 

Where,  from  Harney's  snow-clad  crown, 
Many  rills  come  dancing  down, 
Where  the  speckled  beauties  glide 
Swiftly  through  the  silvery  tide, 
You  may  have  your  stall-fed  steers— 
I  have  lots  of  mountain  deers. 
You  may  have  your  hot-house  greens, 
I  the  good  old  standard  beans — 
Beans  and  pork.     Sometimes  he'd  kill 
A  buffalo  bull,  would  Buffalo  Bill ; 
Then  with  chicken,  grouse  and  quail, 
And  splendid  soup  from  buffalo  tail. 

Oh,  how  happy,  gay  and  free 
O'er  the  mountains  wild  I  roam — 

Bank  stocks  never  trouble  me 
In  my  little  mountain  home. 

Up  the  mountain,  down  the  glen — 
Dangerous  ?  Only  now  and  then. 
If  a  bear  you  want  to  court, 
Take  her  where  the  hair  is  short  ; 


FAKEWELL,    OLD   CABIN   HOME. 


79 


If  you  want  a  fond  embrace, 
Meet  old  Bruin  face  to  face. 
If  she's  strong,  with  frame  well  knit, 
You'll  find  her  most  affectionate. 


Bears  and  buffaloes,  what  care  I — 
Catermounts  may  rave  and  foam  ; 

I  must  leave  you  by  and  by, 
So  farewell,  old  cabin  home. 


80  THE  POET  SCOUT. 

Nature  grand  and  wild  and  free. 
Full  of  life  and  ecstasy  ; 
Courting  nature,  dead  in  love, 
Coo  again,  thou  gentle  dove  ; 
Teach  me,  bird  of  paradise, 
How  to  thaw  the  lover's  ice  ; 
Make  the  blood  within  me  boil- 
Man  must  love,  or  man  must  spoil  ; 
Tell  me,  how  am  I  to  love, 
And  a  maiden's  fancy  move  ? 

Will  you  miss  me  when  I  go — 
When  away  from  you  I  roam  ? 

If  your  nest  should  fill  with  snow 
You  can  take  my  cabin  home. 

Good-by,  scenes  of  mountain  bliss, 
Where  the  clouds  come  down  to  kiss 
Crowning  rocks  and  hiding  trees, 
Until  lifted  with  the  breeze. 
Farewell,  valley  of  my  heart ! 
Time  has  come  when  we  must  part  ; 
Farewell,  all  thy  sweet  wild  flowers  ! 
All  thy  nooks  and  shady  bowers — 
Nevermore  my  eyes  can  see 
Valley  half  so  fair  as  thee. 

Valley,  cabin,  all  farewell ! 

Oh,  for  one  forget-me-not ! 
I  would  leave  it  in  the  dell — 

Plant  it  near  this  moss-grown  cot. 

CASTLE  CBEEK,  BLACK  HILLS. 


A  DIME.  81 


IT'S  ONLY  A  DIME. 

The  following  letter,  inclosing  a  silver  dime,  was  received  at  the  Mayor's 
office: 

NEW  YORK,  July  30. 

"  MR.  MAYOR  :  I  see  a  orphan  sojer's  boy  sends  five  cents,  and  calls  it  his  mite  ;  I 
send  ten.  My  dad  was  a  sojer,  and  they  say  he  was  a  good  one.  He  was  with 
Grant,  and  I  guess  he  is  now.  I  sell  papers  and  black  boots.  If  Vanderbilt  and 
Gould  and  dem  oder  big  fellows  give  as  much  as  they  could  afford,  same  as 
me  and  the  oder  boys,  General  Grant's  monument  would  be  bigger  than  the 
staty  of  Liberty.  JOHNNY. 

"Postscript. — Mother  says,  Don't  sine  your  name, cos  dey  mention  it  in  the 
papers.  Mother  is  a  widder,  and  I  goes  to  Sunday-school.  Call  this  Johnny's 
mite." 

While  reading  this,  vivid  memories  came  up  before  me,  and  I  felt  as  if  this 
little  tribute  would  not  be  out  of  place  : 

You  may  talk  of  the  love  of  little  Nell, 

Of  her  wreath  and  her  innocent  bliss, 
But  oh  !  how  each  comrade's  heart  will  swell 

When  he  thinks  of  a  love  like  this  ! 

"  It  is  only  a  dime,"  said  the  little  waif  ; 

But,  boys,  it  was  rich  and  bright. 
There  never  was  locked  in  a  banker's  safe 

Such  riches  as  this  boy's  mite. 

"  For  dad  was  a  soldier,  too,"  he  said, 

"An'  a  good  un,  the  soldiers  say  ; 
An'  dad  was  with  Grant  wherever  he  led, 

An'  dad  is  with  Grant  to-day." 

And,  boys,  who  knows,  though  his  dad  is  dead, 

This  peer  of  your  snob  galoots 
May  be  carving  his  way  to  the  nation's  head 

Selling  papers  and  blacking  boots. 


82  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


NEW  YEAK'S  DAY  IN  THE  BLACK  HILLS-1876. 

BEYOND  the  Mississippi, 

And  the  old  Missouri,  too, 
On  the  far  and  distant  prairie, 

With  comrades  brave  and  true, 
One  year  ago  I  wandered 

In  the  hills  so  far  away  ; 
I  was  happy  in  my  cabin 

One  year  ago  to-day. 

The  morning  was  a  fair  one, 

And  the  skies  were  bright  and  clear, 
And  the  snow  like  diamonds  sparkled, 

While  we  chased  the  panting  deer  ; 
4        I  never  will  forget  it, 

Each  miner  lad  felt  gay, 
For  we  found  a  splendid  prospect 

One  year  ago  to-day. 

A  band  of  hardy  miners 

At  evening  gathered  round, 
Some  on  rustic  benches 

And  others  on  the  ground  ; 
We  ate  and  drank  together, 

Our  hearts  were  light  and  gay, 
For  a  Concord  coach  first  entered 

Our  Hills  last  New  Year's  day. 

And  as  the  noble  horses 

Came  flying  up  the  street, 
With  fifteen  hardy  miners, 

You  bet,  it  was  a  treat  ; 
And  the  noble  Colonel  Patrick, 

'Twas  this  I  heard  him  say  : 
*  Come  in  and  take  a  drink,  boys, 

For  this  is  New  Year's  day." 


THE   RUINED   VIRGINIA.  83 

But  time  has  worked  its  wonders, 

And  in  every  gulch  and  glen, 
Instead  of  half  a  hundred, 

Ten  thousand  hardy  men, 
With  sluice  and  pan  and  rocker, 

Work  hard  and  trust  in  heaven  ; 
And  twenty  Concord  coaches 

Are  there  in  Seventy- seven. 


THE  RUINED  VIRGINIA. 
(Virginia  City,  Nevada,  almost  totally  destroyed  by  fire,  October,  1876.) 

DID  I  hear  the  news  from  Virginny, 

The  news  of  that  terrible  fire  ? 
Yes  ;  but  I  couldn't  believe  it 

When  it  first  came  over  the  wire  ; 
But  when  I  found  it  square,  pard, 

I  weakened,  you  bet,  right  here, 
And  I  didn't  care  a  tinker's 

Who  saw  me  drop  a  tear. 

Just  reason  the  thing  for  a  minute — 

There's  two  thousand  miners  right  there, 
It's  cold,  way  up  in  the  mountains, 

And  some's  got  no  breeches  to  wear. 
And  that  ain't  the  worst  ;  for  instance, 

There's  two  of  my  old  pards  hurt, 
And  a  dozen  that  wore  plugs  Sunday 

Ain't  got  the  first  stitch  but  their  shirt. 

Now,  Jack,  ain't  that  rough  on  Virginny  ? 

Well,  there  ain't  no  saints  out  there  ; 
And  I  'spec'  it's  a  second  Chicago, 

And  this  is  a  kind  of  a  scare. 


84  THE  POET  SCOUT. 

But  dog  my  cats  if  I  see  it 

Exactly  in  that  thar  way, 
For  most  of  them  hardy  miners 

Are  honest,  by  Joe,  as  the  day. 

But  maybe  it's  all  for  the  better — 

That's  what  the  good  people  say  ; 
But  I  don't  want  any  in  mine,  pard, 

If  the  Lord  will  but  keep  it  away. 
I  don't  read  much  in  the  Scripture, 

But  I've  heard  the  good  parson  talk 
About  sinners  bein'  punished  by  brimstone 

When  against  the  commandments  they  balk. 

Now,  I  don't  jist  understand  it, 

Though  I  tumble  to  what  they  say  ; 
Nor  I  don't  see  why  the  Almighty 

Should  treat  a  poor  man  in  that  way. 
While  the  fellers  who's  got  the  lucre, 

And  the  worst  to  connive  and  swear, 
Always  give  us  poor  devils  the  euchre— 

The  deal  ain't  exactly  square. 

And  if,  as  the  parson  tells  us, 

There's  a  place  after  this,  called  hell, 
With  fire  and  red-hot  brimstone — 

With  a  nasty  kind  of  smell ; 
I'll  be  dogged  if  some  fine  snoozers 

(That  I  have  a  reason  to  know) 
Won't  find  a  scorchin'  old  corner 

In  that  furnace  way  down  below. 

Now,  there  was  old  Kit  McGregor, 

He  was  rough  and  ready,  but  smart  ; 
He  could  whip  any  man  in  the  diggin's— 

And  there  wasn't  a  flaw  in  his  heart. 
But  when  old  Parson  Plum,  one  evening, 

Done  dirt— didn't  act  on  the  square — 
He  sent  the  daylight  clear  through  him, 

And  laid  the  old  sinner  out  there. 


IRENE   IS   DEAD.  85 

Now,  is  Kit  goin'  to  hell  for  that,  Jack? 

Not  much  !  the  Lord  bid  him  shoot, 
And  he  killed  a  worm  of  the  devil — 

A  hypocrite,  rogue,  and  galoot. 
Besides,  the  gal  was  his  darter, 

And  she  panned  out  a  woman  most  fair, 
And  was  loved  by  all  in  the  diggin's — 

But  Kit  had  revenge  right  there. 


IKENE   IS  DEAD. 

The  following  letter,  written  by  the  noted  writer  of  frontier  tales,  Ned  Buntline,, 
furnished  the  theme  for  the  verses  bearing  the  above  title,  and  which  are  now 
published  for  the  first  time  : 

"  EAGLE'S  NEST,  N.  Y.,  Jan.  17,  1881. 

"  MY  DEAR  CRAWFORD  :  Three  words  speak  the  agony  which  volumes  could  not 
describe,  the  loss  which  all  the  gold  in  your  mines  could  not  replace,  the  shadow 
which  hangs  darkest  in  all  my  long,  eventful  life — Irene  is  dead! 

"  My  little  pet,  my  darling,  our  household  angel,  my  only  one,  has  taken  wing 
for  heaven.  Her  marble  cold  form  sleeps  beneath  the  snow  on  yonder  hillside,, 
but  her  spirit  is  in  the  land  of  eternHl  light  and  song. 

"God  help  us!  My  wife's  grief  is  crushing.  I  bear  as  bear  I  must,  but  no  past 
agony  ever  reached  this.  .  .. . 

"  Give  my  love  to  your  boys.  You  may  see  me  in  the  saddle  in  the  spring.  My 
beautiful  home  is  a  desert  to  me  now.  Were  it  not  for  my  wife,  I'd  be  with  you. 
inside  of  two  weeks. 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"E.  Z.  C.  JUDSOX  (Ned  Buntline)." 

Ix  THE  FIELD,  GJO  CALIENTE,  N.  M.,  Feb.  3,  1881. 

DEAR  OLD  HEART  :  Your  sorrowful  yet  beautifully  touching  letter,  containing 
the  sad  news  of  Irene's  death,  is  at  hand,  and  the  rough  frontiersman,  your 
friend,  can  only  drop  a  silent  tear;  bat  if  you  could  look  through  the  dark 
tangled  undergrowth  away  into  the  clear  sunlight  of  my  sou',  at  this  moment, 
you  could  witness  the  beating  of  a  heart  that  is  all  sympathy  forthee  and  thine 
in  thy  deep  sorrow  and  bereavement.  Irene  is  dead!  Oh,  lhat  her  gentle  spirit 
would  act  as  a  medium  to-night,  that  would  manifest  itself  in  poetic  expression  ! 
But  my  hand  trembles  at  the  thought.  In  the  midst  of  savages,  suffering  at  this 
moment  from  a  wound  received  but  three  days  ago,  and  looking  each  day  upon 
the  new-made  graves  of  friends  and  brothers,  how  can  I,  amid  such  scenes, 


86  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

express  in  true  poetic  spirit  sentiments  worthy  as  a  memoriam  to  this  angel? 
Thy  only  rose,  thy  sweet  Irene.  Those  three  words  contain  more  than  would 
fill  volumes — Irene  is  dead! 

Irene  is  dead  I    Thine  only  one, 

Thy  little  household  pet, 
Transplanted  from  a  world  of  sin,. 

A  rose  in  Eden  set. 
How  sweet  the  thought !  why,  dear  old  heart, 

That  land  is  far  more  fair, 
And  Heaven  decreed  that  you  should  part 

To  meet  again  up  there. ' 

Irene  is  dead  !    Do  angels  die  ? 

No,  no  ;  but  He  doth  sever 
The  hearts  He  loves— Irene  wilt  live, 

Forever  and  forever. 
Bow  not  thy  aged  head  in  grief, 

For  Irene  knows  no  pain, 
And  all  is  love,  and  joy,  and  peace, 

Where  you  shall  meet  again. 

Irene's  asleep  !    Thy  little  rose 

Has  lain  her  down  to  rest ; 
Her  marble  face  in  sweet  repose, 

The  snow  above  her  breast  ; 
The  pure  white  snow,  a  fitting  shroud 

For  thine  own  sweet  Irene, 
Whose  life  had  never  known  a  cloud, 

Thine  own  heart's  fairy  queen. 

Thine  only  one  hath  taken  wing, 

Thy  little  household  dove  ! 
Methinks  I  hear  the  angels  sing 

In  chorus,  love  with  love, 
And  Irene's  voice  is  in  that  throng  : 

"Sweet  ma  and  papa  dear, 
Your  darling  sings  a  sweeter  song 

While  waiting  for  you  here." 
Fraternally  yours,    J.  W.  CRAWFORD  (Captain  Jack). 


AMONG  THE   PEAKS.  87 


AMONG  THE  PEAKS. 

OH,  gentle  breeze,  from  sunny  South, 
With  scent  of  fragrant  flowers, 

Warm  again  with  thy  heated  breath 
These  sovereign  hills  of  ours. 

Burst  forth  in  every  mountain  glen 
Where  streams  no  longer  flow, 

With  sunny  beams  from  azure  sky, 
To  melt  the  crusted  snow. 

And  onward  from  the  boisterous  sea 
Sweep  clouds  of  tepid  rain  ; 

Let  thunder  be  thy  bugle  call 
To  free  our  hills  again. 

And  when  the  distant  roll  is  heard, 
'Twill  set  each  heart  aglow, 

For  many  who  have  waited  long 
Will  see  our  streams  o'erflow. 

Our  hearts  will  greet  the  smiling  sun, 
And  bless  the  heavenly  rain  ; 

And  hope,  now  dead,  will  come  to  life 
When  spring  is  here  again. 

.  And  hardy,  honest  sons  of  toil 

Will  grasp  their  tools  once  more  ; 
Hydraulic,  drift  and  sluice  again, 
As  in  the  days  of  yore. 

And  when  the  summer  time  has  come, 
With  hearts  and  mountains  free, 

Each  day  a  stronger  link  will  forge 

To  bind  our  harmony. 
CARIBOO,  B.  C. 


88  THE  POET  SCOUT. 


FAREWELL  TO  OUR  CHIEF. 

The  following  lines  were  written  on  the  field  on  the  same  day  that  Buffalo  Bill 
bade  farewell  to  the  command,  August  24th,  1876,  when  I  was  appointed  to  suc 
ceed  him  as  chief  of  scouts. 

FAREWELL  !  the  boys  will  miss  you,  Bill  ; 

In  haste  let  me  express 
The  deep  regret  we  all  must  feel 

Since  you  have  left  our  mess. 
While  down  the  Yellowstone  you  glide, 

Old  pard,  you'll  find  it  true, 
That  there  are  thousands  in  the  field 

Whose  hearts  beat  warm  for  you. 

And  while  we  wish  you  every  joy, 

Wherever  you  may  roam— 
Success  in  everything  you  try, 

And  happiness  at  home  ; 
Yet  would  we  wish  you  ever  near 

To  join  us  in  the  shouts 
Of  courage  when  the  foe  is  near, 

And  hail  you  Chief  of  Scouts  ! 

So,  Bill,  old  boy,  we  wish  you  well — • 

We  cannot  wish  you  more  ; 
On  sentiment  we  will  not  dwell — 

You've  been  with  us  before  ; 
Your  smiling  face,  your  manly  form, 

The  starlight  in  your  eye, 
In  memory  always  will  be  dear— 

God  bless  you,  pard— good-by  ! 


90  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

DEATH  OF   LITTLE  KIT. 

(To  his  Father,  Buffalo  Bill.) 

The  following  verses  were  written  at  Custer  City,  D.  T.,  on  hearing  from  Mr. 
Cody  (Buffalo  Bill)  of  the  death  of  his  little  boy,  Kit  Carson  Cody. 

MY  friend,  I  feel  your  sorrow 

Just  as  though  it  were  my  own, 
And  I  think  of  you  each  morrow 

As  I  ponder,  when  alone, 
On  the  wonders  of  our  Maker, 

As  the  world  goes  round  and  round  ; 
Since  Kit  is  with  his  namesake 

In  the  happy  hunting-ground. 

But  the  parson  used  to  tell  us 

Of  things  we  little  knew, 
And  how  the  Lord  would  chasten 

The  good,  the  brave  and  true  ; 
That  all  was  for  the  better, 

Though  it  used  to  tax  my  wit, 
Till  i  heard  he  sent  an  angel 

For  your  darling  little  Kit. 

At  first  I  thought,  but  thinking 

Made  me  wonder  still  the  more, 
Till  at  last  I  saw  a  vision 

While  I  slumbered  on  the  floor 
Of  my  little  new  log  cabin 

In  the  Hills,  not  long  ago. 
Yes,  I  saw  the  old  Kit  Carson, 

With  a  beard  as  white  as  snow. 

He  wore  the  same  old  buckskin, 

But  white,  as  if  just  tanned, 
And  beyond  him,  on  the  prairie, 

Was  a  scene  so  very  grand 


DEATH   OF   LITTLE   KIT.  91 

That  I  would  not  dare  describe  it — 

But  that  voice,  that  well  known  sound — 

The  words  were,  "  Pards,  I'm  happy 
In  the  happy  hunting-ground  1" 

I  saw  an  angel  hover 

O'er  a  dark  ravine  below 
The  rippling,  dancing  water 

That  in  silvery  streams  did  flow. 
Then  downward  went  the  angel  ; 

Old  Kit  just  leaped  for  joy, 
When  from  below  that  angel 

Brought  Kit,  your  darling  boy. 

The  old  man  raised  him  fondly, 

And  clasped  him  to  his  breast, 
While  peace  and  sweet  contentment 

Upon  him  seemed  to  rest. 
Just  then  a  painted  redskin 

Was  scowling  from  a  mound, 
When  crack  went  Kit's  old  rifle, 

And  the  fiend  went  under  ground. 

And  then  a  milk-white  pony 

And  a  steed  as  white  as  snow, 
With  wide-expanded  nostrils, 

Were  roaming  to  and  fro, 
When  Kit  exclaimed,  "Come,  darlings, 

My  prairie  birds,  this  way  !" 
And  soon  they  both  were  mounted, 

While  the  choir  began  to  play. 

I  heard  the  sweetest  music 

That  mortal  ever  heard, 
While  steed  and  snow-white  pony 

Were  flying  like  a  bird. 
I  woke,  and  in  my  cabin 

Your  letter  soon  was  found  ; 
And  Kit  had  joined  his  namesake 

In  the  happy  hunting-ground. 


92  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

And,  pard,  when  life  is  ended, 
If  acting  on  the  square, 

We,  too,  will  meet  old  Carson 
And  your  baby-boy  up  there. 


UNDEK   THE   SNOW. 

IN   MEMOBIAM. 

(Lines  on  the  Death  of  T.  E.  Pattullo.) 

UNDER  the  snow  we  have  laid  him  down- 
Down  in  the  depths  of  the  grave  ! 

The  dearest,  kindest  heart  in  the  camp 
Has  passed  o'er  eternity's  wave. 

Gone  forever  !  alas,  can  it  be, 
Will  we  never  again  see  his  face  ? 

Never  again  clasp  his  honest  hand, 
With  its  warm  and  earnest  embrace  ? 

Under  the  snow  in  the  golden  land, 

So  far  from  the  home  of  his  mother, 
No  loving  sister  to  close  his  eyes, 

But  the  hand  of  a  faithful  brother. 
God  help  that  mother  and  sister,  too  ! 

The  news  will  be  sad  we  know, 
"  Our  own  dear  boy  in  Cariboo 

Is  dead  and  under  the  snow  !" 

"  Dear  mother" — and  now  I  speak  for  Tom- 

"  Dear  mother,  don't  grieve  for  me, 
I've  only  laid  me  down  to  rest 

Beneath  the  old  pine  troe. 
So  tired,  dear  mother,  I  needed  rest, 

To  sleep,  to  dream,  to  die  ; 
And  God  does  all  things  for  the  best, 

I'll  meet  you  by  and  by." 


UNDER   THE   SNOW.  93 

Under  the  snow  !    The  setting  sun 

Seemed  bathed  in  tears  to-day, 
And  all  are  lonely  in  the  camp 

Since  Tom  has  passed  away. 
And  many  were  the  heartfelt  sobs, 

And  many  tears  did  flow, 
And  charity  round  his  faults  we  flung, 

With  a  mantle  of  pure  white  snow. 

Under  the  snow  he  sleeps  to-day, 

Mourned  by  the  sad  rough  throng. 
And  just  before  he  passed  away 

He  spoke  of  his  favorite  song, 
"  Maid  of  Athens  !"  beautiful  maid  ! 

There  she  stands  at  the  door  ! 
Ere  we  part— another  verse, 

'Twill  ring  on  the  other  shore. 

Under  the  snow  the' heart  is  still 

In  death  forevermore — 
The  heart  that  never  saw  distress 

Go  hungry  from  his  door. 
And  many,  many  will  attest, 

Who  left  here  long  ago, 
A  truer  friend  than  all  the  rest 

Now  sleeps  beneath  the  snow. 

Under  the  snow  !    A  sinner  sleeps-— 

Heal  saints  are  very  few — 
But  Tom  was  what  we  called  a  man, 

'Mongst  men  in  Cariboo. 
And  when  our  earthly  work  is  done 

And  the  world  is  at  an  end, 
The  Lord  will  not  forget  the  man 

Who's  been  the  poor  man's  friend. 


94  THE  POET  SCOUT. 

THE  DYING  SCOUT. 

(A  Song  to  the  Memory  of  Muggins  Taylor,  who  was  Custer's  courier.) 

COMRADES,  raise  me,  I  ain  (tying, 
Hark  the  story  I  will  tell  ; 

Break  it  gently  to  my  mother, 
You  were  near  me  when  I  fell. 

Tell  her  how  I  fought  with  Caster, 
How  I  rode  to  tell  the  news  ; 

Now  I'm  dying,  comrades,  dying- 
Tell  me,  did  we  whip  the  Sioux  ? 

Chorus. 
Comrades,  raise  me,  I  am  dying, 

Catch  the  story  I  will  tell  ; 
Break  it  gently  to  my  mother, 

You  were  near  me  when  I  fell. 

Tell  my  mother  that,  when  dying, 

Every  scene  came  back  anew — 
All  those  happy  days  of  childhood, 

When  life's  cares  I  little  knew. 
Tell  her  that  I  still  remember 

How  she  wept  for  very  joy 
When  she  clasped  her  arms  around  me, 

Welcomed  home  her  soldier  boy. 

Chorus. 

Comrades,  tell  my  mother  truly 
How  we  fought  to  hold  the  hill  ; 

Tell  her  how  we  gained  the  vict'ry — 
That  I  die  a  soldier  still. 

Hark  !  I  hear  a  voice  up  yonder, 
All  is  sunshine,  bright  and  fair  ; 

Tell  my  mother  I  am  dying- 
She  will  meet  her  boy  up  there. 

Chorus. 


MRS.  KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD. 


95 


MRS.  KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD. 

Mrs.  Kate  B.  Sherwood,  of  Toled  o,  Ohio,  is  the  wife  of  General  J.  R.  Sherwood, 
Colonel  of  the  lllth  Ohio  Volunteer  Infantry,  who  won  the  stars  of  a  general 
by  gallant  conduct  at  the  battle  of  Franklin.  She  is  a  native  Buckeje,  and  since 
her  marriage,  in  the  autumn  of  1859,  then  in  her  eighteenth  year,  she  has  de 
voted  much  of  her  time  to  journalism  and  literature,  has  been  a  contributor  to 
many  of  the  leading  newspapers  and  periodicals,  editor  of  the  Toledo  Journal 
and  editor  of  the  Woman' s  Department  of  the  National  Tribune.  In  the  spring  of 
1885  she  published  "Camp  Fire  and  Memorial  Poems,"  a  volume  of  recitations 
for  Grand  Army  camp  fires,  which  has  been  widely  read,  and  some  of  the  poems 
have  been  translated  into  German.  As  an  industrious  literary  worker  she  has  few 
equals,  and  has  translated  l«rgely  from  German  and  French  into  English. 

It  is,  however,  in  local  and  Srate  charity  work  that  Mrs.  Sherwood's  character 
shines  with  its  greatest  lustre.  In  every  charitable  movement  in  her  native 
State  she  has  ever  been  a  recognized  leader,  and  wa*  one  of  the  original  organiz 
ers  of  the  Woman's  Relief  Corps,  Auxiliary  to  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic. 


96  THE  POET  SCOUT. 

During  the  years  1884-85  she  served  as  president  of  that  organization  with  great 
honor  and  credit,  and  retired  with  the  blessings  of  her  co-workers  and  of  the 
vast  army  of  veterans  all  over  the  land.  She  is  a  woman  of  high  and  noble  im 
pulses,  of  pure  Christian  character,  and  possesses  a  heart  which  ever  beats  in 
sympathy  with  want  and  suffering,  and  hands  ever  ready  to  work  for  the  unfor 
tunate. 

Just  after  the  retirement  of  Mrs.  Sherwood  from  the  position  of  President  or 
the  Woman's  Relief  Corps,  I  had  the  honor  to  recite  one  of  my  poems  in  her 
presence,  and  she  took  her  badge  of  office  from  htr  own  bosom  and  pinned  it 
to  mine.  This  touching  circumstance  called  forth  the  following: 

PEKHAPS. 
(To  Our  G.  A.  R  Goddess— Comrade  Kate  B.  Sherwood.) 

PERHAPS,  beloved  goddess,  you  never  will  know  it, 

The  joy  and  the  pride  that  inflated  my  soul 
That  night  when  you  pinned  your  own  badge  on  my  bosom — 

That  night  when  my  heart  wrote  its  name  on  yoiir  roll. 

Perhaps  it  was  weakness  that  made  my  eyes  glisten, 

While  looking  in  thine,  rather  misty,  I  ween, 
While  a  warrior's  soul  and  the  heart  of  a  woman 

Were  drifting  in  sight  of  our  comrade,  Pauline.* 

Perhaps  it  will  be,  when  the  moss  has  grown  over 

A  spot  that  is  speckled  with  daisies  just  now, 
Where  I  shall  retire  from  life's  nettles  and  clover, 

That  I  shall  meet  you  with  a  crown  on  your  brow. 

Perhaps  all  the  sunshine  that  dodges  our  coming 
Along  on  life's  pathway  will  burst  on  to  us  there  ; 

Perhaps  all  the  music  now  deaf  to  our  thrumming 
Will  thrill  our  tired  souls  in  that  Eden  so  fair. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  'mid  the  strife  and  commotion, 

The  worry  and  fretting  of  life's  busy  throng, 
The  soul  will  ride  over  the  tempest-tossed  ocean, 

And  anchor  where  angels  and  sunshine  belong. 

*  Paul  Van  Dervoort,  Past  Commander-in-Chief  and  honorary  member  of  the 
Woman's  Relief  Corps. 


PERHAPS.  97 

Perhaps  you  will  greet  me  with  love,  song  and  laughter, 
Where  all  our  heart's  yearnings  will  cease  to  exist  ; 

Perhaps  in  that  wonderful,  unknown  hereafter, 
Our  poor,  weary  comrades  may  once  more  enlist. 

Perhaps  in  God's  army  our  missing  will  gather, 

Unknown  will  be  known  when  they  answer  their  names  ; 

Not  one  be  unseen  by  the  all-seeing  Father, 

Though  sleeping  in  woodland,  in  mountain  and  plains. 

And  oh  !  what  an  army  of  heroes  will  muster 

When  Gabriel's  trumpet  shall  call  to  review, 
And  near  to  the  throne  in  a  hallowed  lustre 

Will  stand  one  grand  army — the  Gray  and  the  Blue. 

Perhaps  the  great  chieftains  will  have  a  reunion, 
And  oh !  what  a  camp  fire  the  angels  will  see — 

Grant,  Jackson  and  Sherman,  and  Hancock  and  Gordon, 
With  Buckner  and  Johnston  and  Logan  and  Lee. 

Perhaps  each  will  tell  of  the  heart's  honest  promptings, 
That  bade  them  take  arms  on  the  side  they  thought  right, 

And  the  great  Chief  of  all  will  make  plain  why  He  willed  it 
Why  comrades  and  brothers  each  other  should  fight. 

Perhaps  He  will  point  to  the  emblem  of  freedom, 
As  out  o'er  the  dome  her  broad  stripes  are  unfurled, 

And  say  to  those  chieftains,  those  battle-scarred  heroes, 
"  Your  work  made  that  flag  to  enlighten  the  world." 

And  you,  beloved  goddess,  will  gather  with  others 
To  meet  them  and  greet  them.     If  I  can  be  there, 

I  shall  ask  God  to  let  me  be  aide  to  dear  mothers 
Who  gave  their  brave  sons  to  our  country  so  fair. 

And,  Kate,  if  the  Lord  will  detail  me  to  find  it, 

Your  crown  will  be  brighter  than  any  I  know  ; 
With  sunshine  in  front  and  with  starlight  behind  it, 

I'm  sure  it  will  light  up  this  world  here  below. 


98  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


SANDY'S  REVENGE. 

A  MINEK'S  STBATEGY. 

"  I  SAY,  young  feller,  have  something  to  take  ? 

Yer  a  stranger  to  me,  but  I  like  yer  style, 
And  I  reckin  I  met  ye  somewhar  afore — 

Come,  fellers,  won't  ye  all  have  a  smile  ? 
Ye  see,  I've  jist  come  in  from  the  mines, 
Where  we  fellers  strike  it  rich  sometimes." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  never  drink, 
And  I'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you. 

I  can't  help  it,  sir,  you  may  believe  or  not, 
But  nevertheless  I  am  telling  you  true. 

And,  by  the  way,  a  word  in  your  ear — 

You'll  be  drugged  and  robbed  if  you  drink  in  here. 

He  looked  at  me  with  his  great  blue  eyes, 

And  laughingly  said  :  "  That's  a  very  good  joke. 

I  own  a  half,"  said  he,  "  in  the  prize," 

And  looking  around  on  the  crowd  as  he  spoke, 

"I've  got  enough  in  my  buckskin,  I  think, 

To  treat  the  house.     Come,  every  one,  drink. 

"  And  see  here,  youngster,  you  take  a  cigar. 

The  other  bottle— I  mean  the  brandy. 
Wall,  here's  how — what  might  be  my  name  ? 

Wall,  it  might  be  Jim,  but  they  call  me  Sandy. 
And  I  don't  know  much  'bout  books  and  sich, 
But  what's  the  odds  when  a  feller's  rich  ? 

"  Do  I  want  a  bed  ?     Wall,  I  reckin  I  do, 
And  I  want  a  good'n,  ye  bet  yer  life. 

Come,  set  'em  up  agin  for  the  crew  ; 
What' s  tha*  ye  say— he  v  I  got  a  wife  ? 


99 


Wall,  now  yer  shouten — why,  bless  yer  soul, 
My  Jennie's  the  trimmest  gal  of  the  whole. 

* '  Me  gettin'  full  ?    Is  that  what  ye  said  ? 

Wall,  I  reckin  I  am.     I'll  go  pretty  soon  ; 
An',  landlord,  when  I  get  up  to  bed, 

Send  me  a  night-cap  up  ter  my  room. 
An'  don't  you  forget  it— I  want  it  strong, 
So  I  kin  sleep  on  it,  soundly  an'  long." 

"  Good-night !"  he  said,  as  he  passed  me  by, 
And  I  saw  a  smile  on  his  sunburnt  face  ; 

And  then  he  winked  with  his  flashing  eye, 
And  whispered  :  "  If  ye  kin  find  the  place, 

Jist  come  to  my  room  between  twelve  and  one, 

And  I  reckin  as  how  we  kin  have  some  fun." 

It  was  nearly  twelve  when  he  said  good-night, 

So  I  quietly  left,  as  if  to  go  home, 
And  turning  quickly  round  to  the  right, 

At  a  corner  window  I  saw  him  alone, 
With  a  navy  revolver  in  either  hand, 
He  fixed  them,  and  laid  them  down  on  the  stand. 

I  climbed  the  porch  ;  it  was  rather  dark, 
But  somehow  I  managed  to  reach  the  top. 

I  tapped  at  the  window  and  made  a  noise, 
When  he  motioned  that  I  should  stop.    . 

Too  late— the  lamp  was  turned  out  quite, 

And  he  whispered  :  "  I'll  play  her  alone  to-night." 

Five  minutes  !  and  each  to  me  seemed  an  hour, 
But  at  last  the  painful  silence  was  broke  ; 

A  heavy  thud— then  a  leaden  shower — 
And  the  little  room  full  of  fire  and  smoke. 

A  light  was  struck,  and  there  on  the  floor 

Lay  landlord  and  son  by  the  open  door. 


100  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


CHKISTMAS  DAY  IN   THE    BLACK  HILLS -1876. 

LAST  Christmas  day,  I  remember  it  well— 

And  I  reckon  I'll  still  remember — 
When  emigration  began  to  swell, 

Though  our  chances  war  mighty  slender, 
A  band  of  as  bully  men,  by  Jove, 

As  ever  struck  out  a-trailin', 
Struck  for  the  Hills  ter  hunt  for  gold, 

With  bull  teams  just  a-sailin'. 

And  I  war  guide  of  the  outfit,  pards  ; 

Ye  see,  I'd  been  thar  before, 
When  we  struck  it  rich  on  Calamity  Bar, 

So  I  struck  for  the  Bar  once  more. 
But  I'll  never  forget  when  crossin'  the  Platte, 

And  the  ice  in  the  middle  gave  way, 
And  down  went  our  wagons,  bulls  and  all — 

Pards,  that  war  last  Christmas  day. 

Ye  see,  it  war  only  a  mile  across — 

Wall,  that  ain't  much  out  thar— 
But  the  boys  kinder  left  it  ter  me,  bein'  boss, 

As  ter  whether  the  ice  would  bear  ; 
So  I  reckoned  as  how  I  thought  it  would, 

And  we  started— gee  whoa— right  away  ; 
But  she  cracked  like  an  old  cook's  kettle,  she  did — 

Pards,  that  war  last  Christmas  day. 

Who  cuss'd  ?    Oh,  no,  pards,  I  never  swar, 

But  just  about  that  ar'  time 
There  wasn't  much  poetry  in  my  head — 

I  couldn't  a-spun  a  rhyme— 
Ye  see,  the  quicksands  war  orful  bad, 

And  none  of  us  felt  very  gay  ; 
'Cause  we  had  ter  wade  and  carry  our  grub — 

Pards,  that  war  last  Christmas  day. 


THE  OLD  TRAPPER'S  RELIGION.'  101 

And  now  while  I'm  ridin'  on  cushion  °seats,'  '  ' 

With  nothin'  to  worry  or  fret, 
By  thunder  !  I  almost  wish  I  war  back 

A-courtin'  my  bride,  my  pet  ; 
I  mean  my  "  Winchester,"  bully  old  gal — 

And  the  reds  will  keep  out  of  her  way  ; 
She  dropped  a  buck  weighin'  three  hundred  pounds — 

Pards,  that  war  last  Christmas  day. 


THE   OLD   TKAPPER'S  RELIGION. 

I  AIN'T  goin'  ter  preach  ye  a  sermon, 

Nor  I  ain't  goin'  ter  sing  ye  a  song, 
An'  I  reckin  as  how  ye  won't  think  so, 

If  I  don't  draw  my  story  too  long  ; 
But  I  am  jist  from  the  church  in  the  city, 

Whar  I  hear'n  the  good  parson  man  tell 
'Bout  the  psalm- singers'  home  up  in  heaven, 

An'  the  sinners'  hot  layout  in  hell. 

I  didn't  at  first  understan'  him  ; 

Ye  see,  I  sot  back  nigh  the  door, 
With  my  leg  threw  way  inter  a  tunnel, 

An'  my  slouch  layin'  flat  on  the  floor  ; 
But,  somehow,  his  words  set  me  thinkin', 

An'  it  worried  me  ever  so  long, 
Till  I  dropped  on  the  settled  conclusion 

Thet  he  drawed  it  a  little  too  strong. 

Sez  he,  ye  must  all  get  religion, 
An'  stay  with  the  rules  o'  the  church, 

Else,  or,  on  the  great  day  o'  judgment 
Ye' 11  surely  git  left  in  the  lurch. 


102  '  ,,,    THE   POET   SCOUT. 

'Sez'he,  now's  the  day  o'  salvation, 

For  why  do  ye  weaken  and  wait  ? 
Fly  from  that  trail  strew'd  with  pleasure, 

'Cos  it  leads  right  direct  to  hell's  gate. 

Then  1  ax'd  myself,  what  is  this  racket 

That  he  seems  so  dead  earnest  about  ? 
Is  it  sittin'  close  up  near  the  pulpit 

To  jine  in  the  general  shout  ? 
Is  it  wearin'  a  face*  like  a  bean-pole, 

Chippin'  in  with  a  lusty  amen, 
An'  loafin'  around  in  the  temple 

While  the  beggar  lies  sick  in  a  pen  ? 

Ar'  these  psalm-singin'  nabobs  religious, 

'Cause  they  pray  in  a  satin-lined  box, 
An'  all  the  time  durin'  the  preachin' 

Keep  plannin'  their  next  steal  in  stocks  ? 
Do  ye  think  as  they'll  waltz  inter  glory 

Because  they're  mixed  with  the  flock? 
Not  much  !     They'll  git  left  on  the  margin, 

For  Christ  will  go  down  to  bed  rock. 

In  course,  they're  looked  on  as  Christians, 

Tho'  they  gamble  all  week  on  the  Board, 
They  freely  come  down  with  the  wherewith 

To  help  on  the  cause  of  the  Lord. 
But  I  think  at  the  last  resurrection 

They'll  have  nothin'  but  wildcat  to  sell  ; 
And  instead  of  the  Stock  Board  in  heaven 

They'll  get  points  on  a  corner  in  H— 11. 

Ar'  the  poor  folks  all  bound  to  perdition 
That  labor  and  toil  day  by  day 

For  yer  gilt-edged  Sunday  professors- 
Like  Duncan*— on  starvation  pay  ? 

*  J.  C.  Duncan,  manager  of  the  Pioneer  Bank,  San  Francisco,  who  was  a  pil 
lar  of  the  church,  and  stole  $2,000,000  from  the  depositors,  and  who  denounced 
the  honest  prayer  of  "  Rattlin'  Joe"  as  sacrilegious. 


THE  OLD  TRAPPER'S  RELIGION.  103 

Ar'  they  bound  to  take  lodgin's  with  Satan, 

While  Duncan,  the  deacon,  steals  all  ? 
An'  pays  with  the  sweat  of  the  poor  man 

The  price  for  a  sanctified  stall? 

Ar'  they  to  be  damn'd  inter  torment, 

An'  driv  through  unquenchable  flames, 
'Cause  the  big  book  in  front  o'  the  pulpit 

Don't  happen  ter  show  up  thar  names  ? 
Is  the  devil  a-goin'  for  to  yank  'ein 

To  his  kingdom  of  fire  down  below, 
Jist  'cause  they  don't  jine  in  yer  meetin's, 

And  work  in  the  very  same  row  ? 

In  short,  can't  a  man  as  lives  honest, 

An'  don't  take  the  devil  inside 
(For  no  man  kin  be  a  good  Christian 

An'  yet  from  his  sideboard  imbibe). 
If  he  does  every  day  to  his  neighbor 

As  he'd  have  thet  same  neighbor  to  do, 
Won't  he  fare  jist  as  well  at  the  clean-up 

As  if  worth  a  million  or  two  ? 

The  churches  are  good  institutions  ; 

I  like  to  hear  good  preachers  tell 
'Bout  Christ  and  the  good  o'  religion, 

But  they  ought  ter  preach  temperance  as  well: 
'Cause  rum's  the  stronghold  o'  the  devil, 

An'  a  man  as  drinks  don't  always  win, 
'Cause  he  never  kin  keep  himself  level, 

Since  rum  is  a  cuss  and  a  sin. 

But  I  tell  ye,  a  man  as  lives  honest, 

If  he  never  hears  tell  o'  the  church, 
Kin  jist  be  as  happy  hereafter, 

And  roost  on  the  heavenly  perch  ; 
We're  all  in  the  way  o'  temptation, 

Thar's  no  one  who's  free  from  all  sin  ; 
But  Christ  won't  go  back  on  us- poor  folks 

If  we  do  jist  the  best  that  we  kin. 


THE  POET   SCOUT. 


THE  SCOUT'S  BEQUEST  BEFOEE  THE  BATTLE. 

'TWAS  a  moonlit  night,  just  a  year  ago, 

As  we  sat  and  lay  by  the  old  camp  fire. 
11  Come  fill  up  yer  pipes,"  said  Muggins  the  scout, 

"And  draw  yoursel's  up  just  a  little  nigher, 
"An'  I'll  tell  ye  a  story  (the  gospel  truth), 

An'  I  reckon  I  couldn't  lie  to-night  ; 
For  somehow  I  feel  as  if  this  poor  chap 

Wer'  goin'  ter  git  left  in  to-morror's  fight. 
"An',  pards,  if  I  do — I  see  ye  smile, 

But  I  ar'  in  earnest,  you  bet  yer  life, 
Nor  I  arn't  afeard  to  pass  in  my  checks  ; 

But,  pards,  I'm  a-thinkin'  of  home  and  wife. 

•'  I  left  the  old  cabin— now  two  weeks  ago  ; 

My  poor  wife's  face  wor  a  picter  of  sorror. 
'Muggins,'  said  she,  '  if  ye  get  killed, 

Then  God  ' — but,  no  matter,  I  go  to-morror. 

"  Ye  know  me,  boys  ;  now  look  ye  here, 
Don't  tell  me  I  mustn't  go  in  with  you  ! 

I  never  did  weaken  in  all  my  life,   • 

An'  to  morror  I'll  lead  them  boys  in  blue. 

"An'  if,  when  the  evenin'  sun  goes  down, 
This  time  to-morror  ye  find  I'm  dead, 

I  want  ye  to  tell  me  now,  right  here, 
Ye  won't  see  my  little  ones  want  for  bread. 

"  No  !  thank  the  Lord  !  but  how  about  'Jim  ? 

Now,  there  ar'  a  boy  as  is  like  his  dad, 
An'  '  Bat,'  if  ye  say  that  you'll  tend  ter  him, 

Why  dyin'  to-morror  won't  be  so  bad." 

****** 
Next  eve,  as  the  sun  was  going  down, 

And  firing  had  ceased  along  the  line, 
Old  Muggins  was  humming  that  little  song 

Of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  in  the  bright  sunshine, 


THE   SCOUT'S   REQUEST   BEFORE   THE   BATTLE.     105 


When  zip  came  a  bullet,  and  Muggins  fell. 

"Battees,"  he  said,  "Bat,  don't  forget 
My  wife — my  Annie — my  blue-eyed  Mag, 

An'  Jimmie— our  Jimmie— his  father's  pet." 

We  covered  him  up  with  the  mossy  sod  ; 

Renewed  our  promise  above  his  grave  ; 
Left  him  alone — alone  with  his  GOD — 

Muggins  the  scout,  and  Muggins  the  brave. 


106  THE  POET   SCOUT. 


THE   DEATH   OF   CUSTER. 

In  July,  1876,  I  received  a  telegram  from  W.  F.  Cody  (Buffalo  Bill),  which 
read  :  "Have  you  heard  of  ihe  death  of  our  brave  Caster?"  I  immediately 
wrote  the  following  verses,  which  I  sent  Mr.  Cody,  in  answer  to  his  dispatch 
on  the  following  day  : 

DID  I  hear  the  news  from  Custer  ? 

Well,  I  reckon  I  did,  old  pard  ; 
It  came  like  a  streak  of  lightin', 

And,  you  bet,  it  hit  me  hard. 
I  ain't  no  hand  to  blubber, 

And  the  briny  ain't  run  for  years  ; 
But  chalk  me  down  for  a  lubber, 

If  I  didn't  shed  regular  tears. 

What  for  ?    Now  look  ye  here,  Bill, 

You're  a  bully  boy,  that's  true  ; 
As  good  as  e'er  wore  buckskin, 

Or  foughi  with  the  boys  in  blue  ; 
But  I'll  bet  my  bottom  dollar 

Ye  had  no  trouble  to  muster 
A  tear,  or  perhaps  a  hundred, 

When  ye  heard  of  the  death  of  Custer. 

He  always  thought  well  of  you,  pard, 

And  had  it  been  Heaven's  will, 
In  a  few  more  days  you'd  met  him, 

And  he'd  welcomed  his  old  scout,  Bill. 
For.. if  ye  remember,  at  Hat  Creek 

I  met  ye  with  General  Carr  ; 
We  talked  of  the  brave  young  Custer, 

And  recounted  his  deeds  of  war. 

But  little  we  knew  even  then,  pard 

(And  that's  just  two  weeks  ago, 
How  little  we  dreamed  of  disaster, 

Or  that  he  had  met  the  foe)— 


THE   DEATH   OF   CUSTER.  107 

That  the  fearless,  reckless  hero, 

So  loved  by  the  whole  frontier, 
Had  died  on  the  field  of  battle 

In  this  our  centennial  year. 

I  served  with  him  in  the  army, 

In  the  darkest  days  of  the  war  ; 
And  I  reckon  ye  know  his  record, 

For  he  was  our  guiding  star. 
And  the  boys  who  gathered  round  him 

To  charge  in  the  early  morn, 
War  just  like  the  brave  who  perished 

With  him  on  the  Little  Horn. 

And  where  is  the  satisfaction, 

And  how  are  we  going  to  get  square  ? 
By  giving  the  Beds  more  rifles  ? 

Invite  them  to  take  more  hair? 
We  want  no  scouts,  no  trappers, 

Nor  men  who  know  the  frontier  ? 
Phil,  old  boy,  you're  mistaken— 

Ton  must  have  (he  volunteer. 

They  talk  about  peace  with  these  demons 

By  feeding  and  clothing  them  well  ; 
I'd  as  soon  think  an  angel  from  heaven 

Would  reign  with  contentment  in  hell  ; 
And  some  day  these  Quakers  will  answer 

Before  the  great  Judge  of  us  all, 
For  the  death  of  our  daring  young  Custer, 

And  the  boys  who  around  him  did  fall. 

Perhaps  I  am  judging  them  harshly, 

But  I  mean  what  I'm  telling  ye,  pard  ; 
I'm  letting  them  down  mighty  easy — 

Perhaps  they  may  think  it  is  hard. 
But  I  tell  ye  the  day  is  approaching — 

The  boys  are  beginning  to  muster, 
That  day  of  the  great  retribution — 

The  day  of  revenge  for  our  Custer. 


108  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

And  I  will  be  with  you,  friend  Cody, 

My  mite  will  go  in  with  the  boys  ; 
I  shared  all  their  hardships  last  winter, 

I  shared  all  their  sorrows  and  joys  ; 
So  tell  them  I'm  coming,  friend  William, 

I  trust  I  will  meet  you  ere  long  ; 
Regards  to  the  boys  in  the  muuntains, 

Yours  truly,  in  friendship  still  strong. 


COMRADE,  WHY  THIS  LOOK  OF  SADNESS? 

Written  some  years  ago  to  the  late  Charley  Reynolds,  Custer's  bravest  and 
best  scout,  who  perished  by  bis  side  on  the  Little  Big  Horn. 

COMRADE,  why  this  look  of  sadness  ? 

What  has  caused  this  sudden  change  ? 
Why  thus  wander  in  the  moonlight, 

Acting  so  uncommon  strange  ? 
Know  that  I  would  share  thy  sorrow, 

Even  shed  a  tear  with  thee  ; 
Sick  or  wounded  would  I  leave  you  ? 

No  !  nor  would  you  part  from  me. 

Tell  me,  then  ;  I  too,  have  sorrow, 

But  I  drive  it  from  my  mind  ; 
'Tis  but  folly  thus  to  borrow 

Trouble  from  the  midnight  wind. 
Come,  there's  music  at  the  barracks, 

We're  having  quite  a  hop  to-night- 
Have  a  dance  with  little  Jessie, 

And  I'm  sure  you'll  feel  all  right. 

No  ?  Ah,  comrade,  I  can  see  it, 

Even  though  you  will  not  tell  ; 
You  have  loved  with  all  your  nature — 

Loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well. 


COMRADE,  WHY    THIS   LOOK    OF   SADNESS  ?         109 

This  it  is  that  makes  you  gloomy — 

Cuts  you  to  the  very  core  ; 
But  you  must  remember,  Charley. 

There  are  very  many  more. 

So,  at  last,  I've  got  your  secret — 

Only  one  ?     Indeed  !  not  more  ? 
Me  ?     Why,  man,  that  ain't  a  marker — 

I  can  count  them  by  the  score. 
Women — why,  of  course,  they're  fickle, 

But  the  men  are  fickle,  too, 
And  I'm  sure  the  greater  number 

Of  the  fairer  sex  are  true. 

Yes,  I  had  one  little  sweetheart  ; 

Do  you  see  that  blackened  spot  ? 
There  it  was  that  I  first  met  her 

In  her  father's  little  cot  ; 
And  beside  this  mossy  willow, 

When  the  skylark's  music  fell, 
Gertie  told  me  how  she  loved  me, 

'Mid  the  fragrance  of  the  dell. 

While  my  arms  were  fondly  twining 

Round  her  little  form  so  fair, 
Bright  blue  eyes  like  diamonds  shining, 

And  the  moonbeams  kissed  her  hair — 
Then  it  was  a  silent  arrow 

Pierced  my  little  girl  and  I — 
Pierced  her  through  the  heart,  God  help  me— 

Me  to  live  and  she  to  die. 

Here,  beside  this  dear  old  willow, 

Where  the  flowers  are  growing  wild, 
Rests  old  Bruce,  the  guide  and  trapper, 

With  my  love,  his  only  child. 
Rest  in  peace,  my  little  darling, 

There  is  joy  in  Heaven  for  you  ; 
As  for  me — no  peace,  no  resting 

While  there  lives  a  single  Sioux. 


110  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

Now,  my  boy,  you  know  the  reason 

Why  I  seek  this  spot  alone  ; 
When  the  moon  is  up  and  shining, 

I  can  watch  beside  my  own. 
Go,  enjoy  yourself — I  cannot, 

While  my  angel  sleeps  close  by. 
Hark  !  get  down — I  see  a  scalp. lock  ! 

Not  a  word— he,  too,  must  die. 

Death  was  silent  in  his  mission — 

Not  the  faintest  sound  was  heard  ; 
While  the  scout,  with  cat-like  motion, 

Moved  as  if  he  were  a  bird  ; 
Then  the  flash  of  steel  by  moonlight — 

Not  a  word  had  yet  been  said  ; 
But  the  brave  young  lover  conquered— 

Scored  another  for  the  dead. 


BY  THE  LAKE. 

MY  heart  is  just  dancing  with  rapture 

To  the  music  that  springs  from  the  soul, 
As  I  revel  in  Nature's  seclusion, 

Where  God  left  His  name  on  her  scroll. 
And  the  birds  seem  to  ask  for  a  token  — 

For  a  something  that  they  may  retain — 
A  song  that  the  soul  may  have  spoken, 

By  the  streamlet  that  flows  to  the  plain. 

And  here  far  away  in  the  wildwood, 

With  Nature,  unsullied  by  art, 
Those  thoughts  that  were  dear  to  my  childhood 

Still  twine  themselves  close  round  my  heart. 
Sing  on,  sweetest  songsters,  thy  singing 

Bright  memory's  slumbers  awake  ; 
Thy  voices  in  sweet  chorus  ringing— 

So  I  leave  you  in  peace  by  the  lake. 


THE  POET   SCOUT. 


GOD   BLESS   YE,    GENER'L   CUSTEB." 

' '  BY  gosh,  I  ar'  as  hungry 

As  a  prairie  wolf,  you  bet, 
An',  pards,  I  won't  forget  ye, 

An'  am  moughty  glad  we  met. 
Yer  see,  I've  been  ter  prospec', 

An'  I  lost  my  latitud'. 
Laws' ee,  but  I  war  hungry, 

Them  beans  war  moughty  good. 

"  I've  see'd  thet  face  afore,  pards— 

Can't  say  as  how  I  know, 
My  eyes  ain't  wot  they  us'  ter  war 

'Bout  fifteen  year  ago. 
But,  dog  my  cats,  I'll  swar  it, 

Let's  take  a  closer  sight — 
Blest  if  it  arn't  the  Gener'l ! 

I  knew  I  must  be  right." 

And  then  a  pearly  tear  drop 

Stood  in  the  old  man's  eye. 
"  Yer  know  I've  pray'd  ter  see  him 

Jist  once  afore  I'd  die  ; 
He  saved  my  wife  and  baby 

"When  the  reds  began  to  muster." 
With  outstretched  hand  he,  sobbing,  said 

"  God  bless  ye,  Gener'l  Custer  !" 

"  I  reckin  ye  don't  remember 
Old  Bill  as  run  the  mail 

From  Sidney  up  to  Red  Cloud, 
When  ye  war  on  the  trail; 

An'  how  thet  frosty  mornin' 
Yer  saved  my  Tommy's  life, 

An'  took  a  heap  o'  chances- 
She  told  me— Jane,  my  wife. 


113 


"  I  warn't  thar  to  thank  yer 

When  I  heerd  the  story  through, 
'Cause  that  war  all  I  had  ter  give, 

An'  all  as  I  could  do  ; 
An',  Gener'l,  if  yer  wants  me, 

'Tain't  much  as  I  kin  do, 
But,  dog  my  cats,  I'm  ready 

To  trump  death's  ace  for  you." 


"NEVER   GIVE   UP   THE   SHIP!" 

In  the  spring  of  1875,  in  Custer  City,  at  the  time  I  wrote  the  following  verses, 
I  was,  to  say  the  least,  sick  and  tired  of  the  mountains.    I  had  just  nursed  to 

life  old  Charley  S ,  from  Chicago,  an  old  Forty-niner  (who  was  always  kind 

to  me),  while  a  man  named  Hughes  lay  on  one  of  my  bunks,  his  arm  shattered 
by  a  bullet  from  the  wrist  to  the  muscle,  and  Jule  Seminole,  one  of  my  scouts,  a 
faithful  Cheyenne  warrior,  lay  on  the  other  bunk,  with  pneumonia.  I  had  hard 
work  to  watch  Jule.  If  I  ever  left  the  cabin  during  the  day,  and  the  sun  was 
shining,  he  would  be  sure  to  jump  out  of  bed,  run  around  the  cabin  with  only  a 
single  blanket  thrown  around  him,  and  squat  right  down  on  a  log  or  stone,  his 
moccasined  feet  in  the  melting  snow;  and  when  I  tried  to  reason  with  him,  and 
scold  him  for  exposing  himself,  he  would  look  at  me  with  his  great  brown  eyes, 
shake  his  head  and  say  :  "  You  heap  good  to  me  ;  me  know  you  like  1  get  well. 
But  me  no  like  white  man's  medicine.  Too  much  bad  taste.  Suo.  heap  better 
big  medicine."  He  always  returned  to  his  bunk,  however,  and  finally  got  well 
again,  and  proved  his  devotion  to  me  afterward  on  many  occasions,  never  los 
ing  sight  of  me  while  on  the  trail.  Hughes  had  a  little  boy  nine  years  old,  who 
relieved  me  occasionally,  and  watched  while  I  slept.  I  never  took  my  clothes  off, 
night  or  day,  except  to  change  my  underwear,  for  I  only  had  a  buffalo  robe  and 
one  blanket,  which  I  spread  on  the  damp  sawdust  floor;  and  only  for  a  strong 
constitution  and  temperate  habits,  I,  too,  would  have  been  laid  up.  One  even 
ing,  a  merchant,  who  had  just  come  in  the  Hills,  called  to  see  me,  and  when  I 
told  him  how  I  was  situated,  how  I  had  to  hunt  for  my  meat,  and  how  discour 
aged  I  was  beginning  to  feel,  he  remarked  :  "Never  get  down-hearted,  Jack — 
never  give  up  the  ship  /"  And,  although  he  was  well  off  in  this  world's  goods,  he 
never  offered  me  a  pound  of  tea  or  a  piece  of  bacon.  After  he  left  my  cabin, 
while  my  single  tallow  candle  cast  a  sickly  light  upon  the  smoked  logs,  I  wrote, 
"  Never  Give  up  the  Ship  1" 


114  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

"  NEVER  give  up  the  ship,  old  boy  !" 

Said  a  friend  to  me  to-night  ; 
"  But  jog  along  with  a  manly  step, 

And  with  spirits  always  light  ; 
Laugh  with  a  hearty  will,  old  boy, 

And  wait  for  the  turn  oE  the  tide, 
For  this  is  a  beautiful  world  of  ours — 

So,  Jack,  let  your  troubles  slide." 

How  easy  it  is  for  him  to  say 

"  Never  give  up  the  ship  !" 
While  thinking  of  a  gas-lit  home, 

And  I  with  a  tallow  dip, 
Ensconsed  in  my  little  log  caboose, 

The  wolf  and  the  snow  at  the  door  ; 
I  wish  I  could  give  up  the  craft, 

I'd  sail  in  her  no  more. 

"  Never  give  up  the  ship  !"  he  said, 

This  friend.'  I  could  almost  curse  ; 
With  love  and  friends  and  a  happy  home — 

Ah  !  yes,  and  a  bottomless  purse. 
How  easy  it  is  for  one  to  say, 

"  There's  better  luck  in  store," 
When  hunger  and  sickness  pass  him  by 

And  knock  at  another's  door. 

When  home  for  him  is  a  safe  retreat, 

And  nothing  to  worry  or  fret, 
While  I  in  the  snow  must  hunt  my  meat — 

Or  what  ?     Why,  starve,  you  bet. 
Two  comrades  wounded,  sick  and  sore, 

Are  stretched  on  the  bunks  beside, 
While  I  shake  down  on  the  sawdust  floor 

And  wake  with  a  sore-marked  hide. 

Old  Charley  too  has  just  got  well ! 

He  told  me  I  saved  his  life, 
And  how  I  loved  to  hear  him  tell 

Of  his  home  and  his  dear  good  wife, 


MUSING.  116 

And  how,  if  ever  I  went  back  East, 

His  folks  I  must  call  and  see. 
Then,  old  boy,  we  will  have  a  feast, 

And  drink  your  good  health  in  tea. 

Well,  I  don't  intend  to  give  up  the  ship, 

But  I  wish  I  could  find  a  canoe, 
And  we  were  two  hundred  miles  from  here, 

On  the  banks  of  the  old  Mossu — 
I  reckon  we'd  float,  would  Jule  and  I, 

Though  we  worked  our  venison  raw, 
And  never  let  up  till  we  gazed  once  more 

On  the  spires  of  Omaha. 


MUSING. 

(To  the  Man  of  Intellect.) 

These  verses  were  written  in  answer  to  an  anonymous  letter  written  by  some 
one  in  Victoria,  B.  C.  (who  was  English,  you  know),  telling  me  to  desist  from 
imposing  my  doggerel  on  an  intelligent  newspaper  public. 

WHILE  with  various  thoughts  and  feelings 

I  am  musing  here  to-night — 
Thoughts  of  other  years  of  sorrow, 

Feelings  of  a  heart  more  light — 
Musing  still,  and  still  I  wonder  .   . 

What  my  future  lot  will  be, 
While  my  soul  is  craving  knowledge, 

Will  not  fortune  smile  on  me  ? 

Is  there  no  poetic  beauty 

In  those  simple  songs  of  mine  ? 
Must  a  man  be  bred  in  college 

Ere  he  dares  to  form  a  rhyme  ? 
Though  his  soul  dictates  the  music, 

Yet  his  words,  uncouth  and  plain, 


116  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

Must  not  find  a  friendly  welcome 
From  the  learned  man  of  brain. 

While  my  beating  heart  oft  whispers 

Sweetest  music  to  my  soul, 
And  I  feel  that  heaven-born  passion 

Which  I  care  not  to  control, 
That  which  'neath  the  spreading  branches 

Often  caused  my  mates  to  start, 
Aye  !  and  list  with  awe  and  wonder 

To  the  songs  which  left  my  heart. 

Far  away  in  wild  Dakota, 

Hours  I've  stood  upon  the  green, 
Spouting  what  I  thought  poetic, 

Only  by  my  comrades  seen, 
Bevelling  in  nature's  grandeur. 

Ah  !  but  those  were  happy  days, 
For  I  thought  I  was  a  poet, 

And  deserving  of  some  praise. 

Yet,  alas  !  here  comes  a  letter 
Telling  me  1  must  desist, 

Written  by — perhaps  George  Francis- 
Such  a  s-  Train  was  to  his  fist. 

Stop  it,  Jack— let  reason  guide  you. 
Good  advice  you  dare  reject, 

And  you'll  get  another  letter 
From  a  man  of  intellect. 

Every  man  is  not  a  classic, 

Nearly  all  who  labor  read — 
These  at  least  peruse  my  verses, 

Sometimes  even  with  a  greed. 
Let  me,  then,  a  little  longer 

Pass  like  this  my  idle  hours  ; 
Time  will  surely  make  me  stronger — 

Spring  must  come  to  bring  the  flowers. 

IN  THE  MOUNTAINS,  CAEIBOO,  B.  C. 


AN   EPITAPH   ON   WILD   BILL. 


117 


AN  EPITAPH   ON  WILD   BILL. 

The  following  epitaph  on  J.  B.  Hickock(Wi1d  Bill)  was  written  while  sitting 
on  his  grave,  near  Deadwood,  on  the  10th  of  September,  1876. 

SLEEP  on,  brave  heart,  in  peaceful  slumber, 

Bravest  scout  in  all  the  West  ; 
Lightning  eyes  and  voice  of  thunder, 
Closed  and  hushed  in  quiet  rest. 
Peace  and  rest  at  last  is  given  ; 
May  we  meet  again  in  heaven. 
Best  in  peace. 


118  THE  POET  SCOUT 


GRIZZLY  JAKE. 

WE  sat  by  the  smoking  camp-fire, 

On  the  eve  of  a  summer's  day  ; 
There  was  Grizzly  Jake,  and  Yankee  Jim, 

And  whole-soul'd  Pete  McKay  ; 
There  was  little  Bessie  and  Annie  Roe, 

And  Flora,  the  pet  of  the  train  ; 
There  were  noble  women  and  hardy  men, 

Who  had  started  across  the  plain. 

Old  Grizzly  Jake  was  our  leader, 

And  the  bravest  in  all  the  train  ; 
His  home  was  among  the  mountains, 

His  camp  was  the  rolling  plain  ; 
But  his  heart  bore  a  heavy  burden, 

And  his  face  wore  wrinkles  of  care, 
But  his  eyes  were  as  bright  as  the  eagle's, 

Though  frosted  his  once  golden  hair. 

He  sat  by  my  side  this  evening, 

On  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree, 
When  Flora,  our  blue-eyed  darling, 

Came  over  and  sat  on  his  knee. 
"  Untie  Jake,"  said  the  child,  "I  do  love  'o 

And  mamma  said  'oo  feel  so  bad, 
Taus  'oo  hasn't  no  'ittle  F'ora — 

Is  'at  why  'oo  always  feel  sad?" 

Great  drops  stood  in  beads  on  his  forehead, 

And  tears  rolled  away  from  his  eyes, 
As  he  answered  :  "  My  Jean  and  my  Flora 

Are  waiting  for  me  in  the  skies. 
Yes,  darling,  I  had  a  sweet  Flora, 

And  Jean  was  her  mother— my  wife. 
Aye,  dead !    Oh,  God  !  it  was  fearful  1 

Cut  down  in  the  morning  of  life. 


GRIZZLY  JAKE.  119 

*'  And  still — but  why  should  I  think  it— 

My  Flora  may  still  be  alive  ; 
fet  I  saw  in  her  breast  the  cold  arrow. 

No,  no  ;  she  could  never  survive. 
No,  child,  it  is  too  long  a  story, 

And  perhaps  it  would  cause  you  a  fright. 
There,  now,  run  away  to  your  mamma." 

"  Untie  Jake,  let  me  tiss  'oo  dood-night." 

"  Good-night,  and  God  bless  you,  my  angel  1 

Oh,  God  !"  said  the  old  pioneer, 
"  Thou  only  can  know  niy  deep  sorrow  ; 

And,  God  !  Thou  art  all  whom  I  fear. 
Nor  hell,  with  its  fury,  can  daunt  me, 

And,  death,  I  would  welcome  Ihee  still ; 
But  the  fiends  have  not  all  departed, 

And  one  there  is  left,  I  must  kill." 

The  camp  was  as  still  as  the  night  wind- 
Not  a  sound,  save  the  stirring  of  leaves— 

As  the  scout  strolled  oft'  to  the  river, 
And  walked  to  and  fro  'neath  the  trees, 

Until  long  after  midnight,  still  walking, 
He  saw  (yet  he  seemed  not  to  see) 

The  head  of  a  Sioux  in  the  willows. 
"  It  was  Flora  who  sent  me,"  said  he. 

He  knew  what  was  coming  at  daybreak, 

Nor  feared,  while  yet  dark,  for  his  life  ; 
For  he  knew  they'd  not  dare  to  attack  him, 

Except  with  the  arrow  or  knife ; 
So  he  kept  out  of  range  of  such  weapons, 

And  carelessly  walked  to  the  train, 
Where  he  lay  down,  and  spoke  in  a  whisper, 

Lest  fright  and  confusion  might  reign. 

And  soon  every  man  in  the  outfit 

Was  piling  up  bacon  and  flour, 
Inside  of  the  wheels  of  each  wagon. 

The  morning  would  dawn  in  an  hour. 


120  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

The  relief  for  the  three-o'  clock  herder 
Went  out  with  his  orders  O.  K. 

Said  Jake:  "Round  your  cattle  up  slowly  ; 
We'll  corral  them  at  break  of  day." 

Every  woman  and  child  was  still  sleeping, 

And  all  were  prepared  for  the  fight, 
When  our  pet  of  the  train,  little  Flora, 

Awoke  from  a  dream,  in  a  fright ; 
And,  seeing  old  Jake  with  his  rifle, 

She  whispered  these  words  in  his  ear  : 
"Untie  Jake,  while  asleep,  I  was  d' earning 

Dat  'oo  'ittle  F'ora  was  here." 

"  God  bless  you  !"  again  said  Old  Grizzly, 

And  he  whispered  these  words  in  her  ear  : 
"  Keep  low  till  I  come  again,  darling  ; 

I  believe  that  my  angels  are  here." 
"  Twenty  men,"  said  the  old  man  of  sixty, 

"  Fleet-footed,  with  nerves  that  are  steel, 
Follow  me,  while  the  morning  is  darkest. 

Good  angels  are  with  us,  I  feel. 

"  And  you  who  remain  with  your  sweethearts, 
And  you  who  must  fight  for  your  wives, 

Be  guided  by  me,  I  entreat  you, 
And  we  will  not  lose  precious  lives  ; 

And,  men,  when  you  bring  up  your  rifles- 
Don' t  mind  though  these  devils  may  yell  ; 

It  is  only  a  ruse  to  stampede  you — 

Just  look  through  your  sights,  and  look  well. 

"  Don't  fire  till  within  twenty  paces — 

By  that  time  each  face  you  can  see. 
They  believe  all  are  sleeping  ;  and,  comrades, 

Just  aim  'twixt  the  shoulder  and  knee, 
While  we  strike  for  their  rear  in  the  sage-brush. 

No  fear — by  the  time  we  are  seen, 
You  will  have  struck  for  the  living, 

And  I  for  my  Flora  and  Jean. ' • 


BIRDS   OF   THE   HUDSON   BAY.  121 

Uncle  Jake  and  his  twenty  departed. 

Not  a  man,  not  a  woman  or  child 
But  believed  in  his  grit  and  his  goodness  ; 

And  the  pet  of  the  train  sweetly  smiled, 
As  she  whispered,    "He's  dust  'ike  the  Sav'or  ; 

And,  mamma,  1  ain't  dot  no  fear, 
Taus  Dod  sent  his  F'ora  his  angel 

To  tell  him  bad  Ingins  were  here. 

*###*•* 
On  the  field  there  are  fifty  GOOD  Indians, 

And  all  looking  peaceful  and  bland. 
Perhaps  they  have  gone  to  be  angels, 

Perhaps  they  have  gone  to  be  d d; 

And  perhaps  Grizzly  Jake  will  recover, 

And  look  on  his  angel  and  queen, 
For  Flora  is  smoothing  his  ringlets, 

And  bathing  his  temple — his  Jean. 


BIRDS  OF    THE  HUDSON    BAY. 

EVEEY  day  when  I  open  the  door 
Of  my  little  cabin,  I  see  before 
Two  little  birds— a  happy  pair, 
Sitting,  and  cooing,  and  twittering  there- 
Sitting  and  waiting,  perched  on  a  bough, 
And  never  afraid  of  me— somehow 
Waiting  to  see  the  door  open  wide  ; 
Then  in  a  moment,  close  to  my  side, 
They  come  and  chirrup,  but  never  sing- 
Chirrup  for  crumbs,  waiting  for  spring — 
Spring  that  will  come,  melting  the  snow, 
Then  my  pets  will  leave  me*  and  go 
Off  to  the  meadows,  happy  and  gay, 
Beautiful  birds  of  the  Hudson  Bay. 

*  Hudson  Bay  birds  (natives  of  British  Columbia). 


122  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

MY  IDEAS. 

While  in  Barkerville,  B.  C.,  a  certain  California  expert  condemned  the  quartz, 
and  said  we  had  no  ledges;  in  answer  to  which  I  wrote  the  following  verses  : 

BARKER,  I  love  thy  rustic  hills, 

I  love  thy  streams  and  bowers  ; 
I've  lingered  near  thy  rippling  rills, 

And  gathered  sweetest  flowers  ;         • 
And  down  thy  wondrous  valleys, 

And  up  each  snow-clad  peak, 
I've  wandered  where  the  roses 

Of  nature's  grandeur  speak. 

Oh,  where  in  God's  creation, 

Can  we  poor  people  go, 
And  find  a  better  prospect 

Than  these  our  croppings  show  ? 
And  tell  me,  oh,  ye  experts, 

From  whence  the  millions  came, 
That  rolled  out  in  the  sluices, 

Since  Barker  got  its  name  ? 

And  if  there  are  no  ledges 

In  this  little  world  of  ours, 
Go  cast  aside  your  sledges, 

And  pluck  your  budding  flowers. 
Go  draw  your  stakes  and  burn  them, 

And  cache  your  mining  tools, 
And  tell  the  whole  creation 

That  you're  a  set  of  fools. 

And  then,  when  you  have  vanished, 

Some  kid-gloved  millionaire 
Will  step  into  your  country, 

And  call  it  wondrous  fair. 
And  ere  your  hair  is  silvered, 

The  news  will  come  to  you  : 
"  The  world  has  nothing  richer 

Than  the  mines  of  Cariboo." 


THE  PEOSPECTOK'S  SOLILOQUY.  123 


THE  PKOSPECTOE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

While  sitting  one  day  at  one  of  our  mining  claims  in  the  Black  Range  of  New 
Mexico,  discussing  the  propriety  of  sinking  a  shaft,  my  paid,  Jim  Biain,  Detter 
known  as  "Apache  Jim,"  arose,  and,  striking  a  tragic  attitude,  cried  out:  "To 
sink,  or  not  to  sink  ?  that's  the  question.' '  This  incident  suggested  the  following : 

To  sink  or  not  to  sink  ?     That  is  the  question  ; 

Whether  'tis  fitter  in  the  prospector  to  sell 

The  highly  metalliferous  croppings  for  a  song, 

Or,  using  muscle,  to  dig  down, 

And  thus,  by  perseverance,  strike  it  rich. 

To  work,  to  sink,  and  by  that  sinking  strike  a  lead 

Of  gold  or  silver,  or  finest  copper  glance 

That  luck  is  heir  to.     'Tis  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  sink,  to  blast  ; 

To  blast,  perchance  to  bu'st— aye  !  there's  the  rub, 

For  at  a  shallow  depth  what  base  may  come 

When  we  have  shovelled  off  th'  uncertain  top 

Must  give  us  pause.     There's  the  respect 

Which  makes  calamity  of  a  prospect-hole  ; 

For  who  can  tell  what  pinch  may  come  below 

The  argentiferous  stuff — component  parts  of  lead, 

The  metalliferous  decomposed  conglomerate 

Eruption  of  nature,  all  broken  up  ;  perchance 

The  insolence  of  luckier  pards,  and.  then 

The  chance  the  miner  takes  by  sinking  shaft, 

While  he  himself  might  be  much  better  off 

By  simply  waiting.     What  is  't  we  would  not  do 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  yet  unseen, 

The  undiscovered  pay-streak  (perhaps  not  there), 

That  makes  us  rather  raise  the  monuments  we  have 

Than  open  up  the  ground  \ve  know  not  of. 

Thus  prospecting  makes  cowards  of  us  all, 

And  so  the  prospects  of  a  big  bonanza 

Are  sicklied  o'er  by  some  dark,  cussed  doubt, 

And  speculators  in  a  surface  prize 

Do  thus  regard  their  interest,  turn  aside, 

And  lose,  perchance,  a  million  ! 


THE  POET  SCOUT. 

THE  MINEE'S  DEEAM  — XMAS  EVE. 

To  my  Comrade  and  Brother,  T.  W.  Keene. 

IT  was  Christmas  eve,  and  the  pale  moon  smiled 

Through  the  silvery  clouds  of  gray  ; 
The  scene  was  grand — in  nature  wild — 

And  stars  shone  bright  as  day  ; 
And,  all  alone  by  his  stony  hearth, 

A  miner,  young  and  strong, 
Thinking  of  all  he  loved  on  earth, 

Sat,  singing  this  little  song  : 

SONG  AND  CHOBUS. 

Dedicated  to  everyone  who  has  Loved  Ones  far  away. 
Dearest  Annie,  I  am  thinking, 

While  the  night  winds  whisper  low, 
Of  my  loving  wife  and  babies, 

And  my  heart  is  all  aglow  ; 
For  I've  struck  it  in  the  gravel, 

And  our  home  will  soon  be  free  ; 
So  I  write  to  tell  you,  darling, 

Kiss  the  little  ones  for  me. 

Chorus. 
Kiss  the  little  ones  for  papa  ; 

Tell  them,  in  their  joy  and  glee, 
How  I  love  our  little  darlings- 
Kiss  the  little  ones  for  me. 

Tell  our  darlings  it  is  twilight, 

While  the  shades  of  evening  fall, 
And  I'm  gazing  on  their  shadows, 

On  their  baby  faces  small ; 
How  I  dwell  upon  each  feature, 

Full  of  love  and  ecstasy, 
While  I  kiss  our  babies'  pictures — 

Kiss  the  little  ones  for  me. 

(jhorus. 


-XMAS   EVE.  125 


Tell  the  little  ones  I'm  coining, 

When  they  go  to  bed  each  night, 
As  they  whisper,  "  God  bless  papa  1" 

With  their  baby  faces  bright. 
I  have  written  to  the  banker — 

You  have  waited  patiently  ; 
While  I  dream  of  home,  my  Annie, 

Kiss  the  little  ones  for  me. 

Gh  or  us. 


The  tears  rolled  down  his  swarthy  cheek, 

And  the  heart  that  knew  no  fear 
Beat  faster  as  he  heard  her  speak — • 

Or,  rather,  seemed  to  hear 
His  Annie's  voice,  so  low  and  sweet, 

In  answer  to  his  lay  : 
"Dear  Harry,  we  again  shall  meet, 

While  love  is  in  its  May." 

"Oh,  happy  dream  !     K  dream  it  be — 

I'll  lay  me  here  till  dawn, 
And  close  my  eyes,  that  I  may  see 

This  happy  scene  go  on." 
And  while  the  glowing  embers  died 

Upon  the  stony  hearth, 
He  wandered  back  to  Annie's  side, 

The  spot  most  dear  on  earth. 

He  dreamed  that  all  was  gloomy  there 

At  twilight  Christmas  eve — 
The  children  cold,  the  larder  bare, 

And  no  one  to  relieve. 
And,  listening  through  a  broken  glass, 

He  heard  his  dear  wife  say  : 
"Don't  cry,  my  darlings — yet,  alas  ! 

To-morrow's  Christmas  day  !" 

Oh,  how  his  manly  bosom  heaved — 
His  face  was  all  aglow  ; 


126  THE  POET  SCOUT. 

"My  darlings  soon  shall  be  relieved. 

I'll  go  right  in— but,  no  ! 
Old  Santa  Glaus  shall  play  his  part ; 

I'll  dress  him  to  his  eyes, 
And  fill  each  little  saddened  heart 

With  joy  and  sweet  surprise." 

And  as  the  rays  of  morning  light 

Were  peeping  o'er  the  hill, 
Old  Santa  Glaus,  with  hair  snow-white, 

Sat  down  on  the  window-sill,  , 

Weary  and  loaded  with  precious  freight 

From  his  back  to  the  cutter-sled. 
"Ha,  ha  !"  he  laughed,  "I'm  not  too  late — 

They're  just  getting  out  of  bed." 

The  children's  tongues  were  loose  again, 

And  their  eyes  were  opened  wide  ; 
The  rags  were  gone  from  the  broken  pane, 

And  three  stockings  hung  inside. 
The  largest  stocking  was  long  and  red, 

And  lettered  with  gold  and  bright ; 
"This  is  for  little  Jack,"  it  said, 

While  little  May's  was  white  ; 

And  the  third  for  Annie,  the  faithful  wife. 

"Oh,  mamma,  mamma  dear!" 
Said  Jack,  while  showing  a  pearly  knife, 

"  Old  Santa  Glaus  was  here  !" 
"And,  mamma,"  said  little  May,  whose  eyes 

Were  beaming  with  delight, 
"  Dod  heard  our  prayers  np  in  a  sties, 

'Tos  we  prayed  so  hard  las'  night. 

"Yes,  darlings,  God  has  heard  your  prayers, 
And  smiled  behind  the  frown." 

Old  Santa  Glaus  had  climbed  up-stairs, 
And  now  came  tumbling  down  ; 

And  such  a  sight  was  never  seen 
By  mortal  eyes  before, 


THE   MINER'S   DREAM— XMAS   EVE.  127 

While  Santa  Clans,  the  miner  king, 
With  good  things  strewed  the  floor. 

Then  quick  he  threw  aside  his  staff, 

The  white  beard  from  his  face, 
While  'mid  a  storm  of  cry  and  laugh, 

And  three  in  one  embrace, 
The  happy  miner  said  that  day 

He  never  more  would  roam  ; 
And  thus,  two  thousand  miles  away, 

He  spent  his  Christmas  home. 

***** 
"  Ccnsarn  my  picter  !  Harry,  lad  ; 

Laws-ee  !  yer  ain't  up  yet? 
Why,  boy,  what  makes  yer  look  so  sad  ? 

Thar's  somethiu'  wrong,  I'll  bet ; 
Corral  me  if  yer  don't  look  sick  ! 

Wa'al,  pshaw  !  I'll  jest  prescribe— 
Thar's  hur  letter,  long  and  thick— 

That's  why  I  tuck  this  ride. 

"I'll  bet  two  beaver-skins  agin 

A  starved  coyotte's  pelt, 
And  all  the  ore  on  Jennie  Lynn 

That's  worth  a  darn  to  smelt, 
As  that's  a  daisy  Christmas-box 

To  drive  away  the  blues. 
So,  Harry  lad,  let  this  old  fox 

Go  off  and  take  a  snooze." 

Hold  on,  old  pard  !  this  is,  indeed, 

A  Christmas-box  for  me — 
The  medicine  I  sorely  need — 

I'll  share  it,  pard,  with  thee. 
From  Annie,  'way  back  in  the  East ; 

My  fears  were  all  absurd. 
To-day  they'll  have  a  glorious  feast — 

The  banker's  kept  his  word. 
POBT  CBAIO,  NEW  MEXICO. 


128  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

"OUR  NUGGET." 

MAY   CODY    CEAWFORD. 

SOME  call  her  blue  eyes, 

And  some  call  her  pet, 
Violet  and  sunshine, 

And  sweet  mignonette  ; 
Golden  hair,  blue  bird, 

And  sweet  little  love, 
But  I  call  her  May  flower, 

My  little  white  dove. 


Chorus. 
May  flower,  May  flower, 

Budding  in  beauty  and  love, 
Daffodil  dimples  and  daisies, 

I  call  her  my  little  white  dove. 

Eyes  like  her  mother's, 

And  lips  like  a  peach  ; 
Cheeks  like  two  apples 

That's  just  out  of  reach  ; 
Ears  like  bright  amber, 

With  gold  hair  above, 
My  own  little  May  flower, 

My  little  white  dove. 

Chorus. 

God  bless  our  darling 

And  keep  her  alway, 
Guide  her  through  flow'rets 

On  each  coming  May. 
Teach  her  to  love  us, 

As  much  as  we  love 
Rosy  cheeks,  blue  eyes, 

Our  little  white  dove. 

Chorus. 


130  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

BUFFALO   CHIPS,    THE   SCOUT. 

To  Buffalo  Bill. 

The  following  verses  on  the  life  and  death  of  poor  old  Buffalo  Chips  arc 
founded  entirely  on  facts.  His  death  occurred  on  September  8th,  1876,  at  Slim 
Buttes.  He  was  within  three  feet  of  me  when  he  fell,  uttering  the  words  credited 
to  him  below. 

THE  evenin'  sun  war  settin',  droppin'  slowly  in  the  west, 

An'  the  soldiers,  tired  an'  tuckered,  in  the  camp  would  find,  that  rest 

"Which  the  settin'  sun  would  bring  'em,  for  they  marched  since  break  o' 

day — 

Not  a  bite  to  eat  'cept  horses  as  war  killed  upon  the  way  ; 
For,  ye  see,  our  beans  an'  crackers,  an'  our  pork  war  outen  sight, 
An'  the  boys  expected  rashuns  when  they  struck  our  camp  that  night  ; 
For  a  little  band  had  started  for  to  bring  some  cattle  on, 
An'  they  struck  an  Indian  village,  which  they  captured  jist  at  dawn. 

Wall,  I  war  with  that  party  when  we  captured  them  ar'  Sioux, 

An'  we  quickly  sent  a  courier  to  tell  old  Crook  the  news. 

Old  Crook  !     I  should  say  Gener'l,  cos  he  war  with  the  boys — 

Shared  his  only  hard-tack,  our  sorrows  and  our  joys  ; 

An'  thar  is  one  thing  sartin— he  never  put  on  style. 

He'd  greet  the  scout  or  soldier  with  a  social  kinder  smile, 

An'  that's  the  kind  o'  soldier  as  the  prairy  likes  to  get, 

An'  every  man  would  trump  death's  ace  for  Crook  or  Miles,  you  bet. 

But  I'm  kinder  off  the  racket,  cos  these  Generis  gets  enough 
O'  praise  'ithout  my  chippin',  so  I'll  let  up  on  that  puff  ; 
For  I  want  ter  tell  a  story  'bout  a  mate  of  mine  as  fell, 
Cos  I  loved  the  honest  fellar,  an'  he  did  his  dooty  well  ; 
Buffalo  Chips  we  call'd  him,  but  his  other  name  war  White  ; 
I'll  tell  ye  how  he  got  that  name,  an'  reckon  I  am  right. 
You  see,  a  lot  of  big-bugs  an'  officers  came  out 
One  time  to  hunt  th'  buffaler,  an'  fish  for  speckled  trout. 

Wall,  little  Phil — ye've  heerd  on  him,  a  dainty  little  cuss 

As  rode  his  charger  twenty  miles  to  stop  a  little  muss. 

Well,  Phil,  he  said  ter  Jonathm,  whose  other  name  war  White  ; 

"  You  go  an'  find  them  buffaler,  an'  see  you  get  'em  right." 


BUFFALO    CHIPS,    THE   SCOUT.  131 

So  White  he  went  an'  found  'em,  an'  he  found  'em  cecli  a  band 
As  he  sed  would  set  'em  crazy,  an'  little  Phil  looked  bland  ; 
But  when  the  outfit  halted,  one  bull  was  all  war  there, 
Then  Phil  he  call  him  "  Buffalo  Chips,"  an'  swore  a  little  sware. 

Wall,  White  he  kinder  liked  it,  cos  the  Gener'l  called  him  Chips, 

An'  he  us'ter   wear  two  shooters  in  a    belt  above  his  hips. 

Then  he  said  : "  Now,  look  ye.  Gerier'l,  since  ye' ve  called  me  that  ar'  name, 

Jist  around  them  little  sand-hills  is  yer  dog-gone  pesky  game." 

But  when  the  hunt  war  over,  an'  the  table  spread  for  lunch, 

The  Gener'l  called  for  glasses,  an'  wanted  his  in  punch  ; 

An'  when  the  punch  was  punished,  the  Gener'l  smacked  his  lips, 

While  squar'  upon  the  table  sot  a  dish  o'  Buffalo  Chips. 

The  Gener'l  looked  confounded,  an'  he  also  looked  for  White, 

But  Jonathin  he  reckon'd  it  war  better  he  should  lite  ; 

So  he  skinned  across  the  prairy,  cos,  ye  see,  he  didn't  mind 

A  chippiri  any  longer  while  the  Gener'l  saw  the  blind, 

Fur  the  Gener'l  would  a-raised  him,  if  he'd  jist  held  up  his  hand, 

But  he  thought  he  wouldn't  see  him,,  cos  he  didn't  hev  the  sand, 

An'  he  rode  as  fast — aye,  faster,  than  the  Gener'l  did  that  day, 

Like  lightin'  down  from  Winchester,  some  twenty  miles  away. 

Wall,  White  he  had  no  cabin,  an'  no  home  ter  call  his  own, 
So  Buffaler  Bill  he  took  him  an'  shared  with  him  his  home. 
An'  how  he  loved  Bill  Cody  !     By  gosh  !  it  war  a  sight 
Ter  see  him  watch  his  shadder  an'  foller  him  at  night, 
Cos  Bill  war  kinder  hated  by  a  cussed  gang  o'  thieves 
As  carried  pistols  in  thar  belts  an'  bowies  in  thar  sleeves  ; 
An'  Chips  he  never  left  him  for  fear  he'd  get  a  pill, 
Nor  would  he  think  it  moughty  hard  to  die  for  Buffalo  Bill. 

We  us'ter  mess  together— that  ar'  Chips  an'  Bill  an'  me  ; 

An'  ye  oughter  watch  his  movements  ;  it  would  do  ye  good  ter  see 

How  he  us'ter  cook  them  wittles,  an'  gather  lots  o'  greens 

To  mix  up  with  the  juicy  pork,  an'  them  unruly  beans. 

An'  one  cold,  chilly  mornin'  he  bought  a  lot  o'  corn, 

An'  a  little  nask  o'  likker,  as  cost  fifty  cents  a  horn. 

Tho'  forty  yards  war  nowhar,  it  war  finished  soon,  ye  bet  ; 

But,  friends,  I  promised  some  one,  and  I'm  strong  teetotal  yet. 


132  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

It  war  twenty-fourth  o'  August,  in  the  last  Centennial  year, 

We  bid  farewell  to  Cody  an'  gave  a  hearty  cheer  ; 

An'  Chips  said,  lookin'  after  :  '*  I  may  never  see  him  more, 

Nor  meet  him  in  his  cabin  as  I  us'ter  do  of  yore, 

Whar  I  us'ter  take  his  babies  an'  buy  each  one  a  toy, 

An'  play  with  them  ar'  younkers  jist  like  a  great  big  boy." 

An'  when  the  cold  lead  struck  him — "  Jack,  boy,"  said  he,  "  you  tell — ' 

He  stopped,  then  said  :  "Bless  Cody,  the  babies — all — farewell." 

He's  sleepin'  in  the  mountains,  near  a  little  runnin'  brook, 

Thar's  not  a  soul  to  see  him,  'cept  the  angels  take  a  look, 

Or  a  butterfly  may  linger  on  his  grave  at  early  morn— 

No  mortal  eye  may  see  it  till  old  Gabriel  toots  his  horn  ; 

For  we  laid  him  'neath  the  foot  trail  that  the  Sioux  might  never  know, 

As  they'd  dig  him  up  and  scalp  him  if  they  had  the  slightest  show  ; 

An'  we  marched  two  thousand  footmen  and  horsemen  o'er  his  breast — 

Without  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot,  we  left  the  scout  to  rest. 

An'  then  I  sent  a  telegraph  and  tol'  Bill  he  war  dead  ; 

I'll  give  in  full  his  answer,  an'  this  war  what  he  said  : 

"  Poor  White,  he  war  my  truest  friend.     My  wife  and  children,  too, 

Have  wept  as  if  he  war  our  own.     An',  Jack,  I  ask  of  you 

To  write  a  little  verse  for  us  in  mem'ry  o'  poor  White." 

So  that  war  Cody's  telegraph,  an'  that  is  why  I  write  ; 

But  laws'ee  !  my  book-larnin'  ar'  shaky  for  a  bard — 

I  can't  jist  do  him  justice,  but  Heaven  holds  his  reward. 


TO  JAMES   G.   FATE. 

MY   FKIEND. 

DEAE  friend,  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you, 
Something  to  tell  ;  perhaps  you  never  knew 
Half  my  distress,  the  shock  of  Fortune's  frown, 
That  bore  me  down  to  earth,  and  kept  me  down, 
Till  you,  with  generous  heart,  made  clear  the  way  ; 
Gave  hope  where  hope  was  dead— a  sunny  ray 


CUSTER.  133 

Dispersed  the  clouds  that  overhung  my  sky, 

And  made  my  crutches  to  the  four  winds  fly. 

Oh,  sir,  had  I  a  heart  of  stone, 

Instead  of  flesh  and  blood,  I'd  gladly  own 

That  you  have  made  of  me  this  very  day 

A  man,  but  in  a  different  way 

From  kicks  and  frowns  (by  which  some  men  are  made), 

By  starting  me  a  little  up  the  grade. 

"  Now  help  yourself  /"  I  thank  you  from  my  heart 

For  those  last  words,  because  they  form  a  part 

Of  this  new  life— and  make  my  bosom  thrill— 

A  beacon  light  to  guide  me  up  life's  hill. 

Once  there,  upon  the  summit  of  its  brow, 

My  heart  will  speak  as  it  is  speaking  now  ; 

From  out  its  greatest  depths  will  breathe  a  name 

That  made  me  in  my  joy  forget  that  I  was  lame. 

Then — Heaven  helping     every  act  of  mine 

Will  prove  my  gratefulness  for  one  of  thine. 

So  let  me  live  that  you  may  proudly  say, 

I  was  his  friend  in  need,  and  am  to-day. 

SAN  FBANCISCO,  September,  1879. 


CUSTEE. 

To  General  Wesley  Merrill,  Ouster1  s  Friend  and  Comrade. 

"No  spot  onihe  American  Continent,"  says  Major  Newsom,  in  his  "Black  Hills 
Sketches,"  is  "so  grand  and  beautiful  as  Custer.  Lying  peacefully  in  a  basin, 
French  Creek  winding  through  it,  and  the  ground  gently  ascending  even  to  the 
apex  of  Harney's  Peak,  the  scene  is  lovely  beyond  description.  In  front  of  the 
city  a  high  mountain  rears  its  head;  just  outside  of  the  line  of  houses  a  bluff 
surrounds  the  place  in  a  semicircle,  and  from  this  bluff  no  grander  view  ever 
fell  upon  the  vision  of  man.  Talk  about  scenery  in  Europe !  It  is  tame  in  com 
parison  with  that  about  Custer.  Gazing  out  from  this  po'nt  no  sight  could  be 
more  enchanting.  Here  at  our  feet  is  the  city,  so  clean  and  regular.  Yonder  is 
an  undulating  plain,  as  charming  as  the  graceful  figure  of  a  woman  ;  on  our  left 
winds  the  road  ;  on  our  right,  swelling  knolls,  hillocks,  valleys,  and  just  beyond, 
grand,  natural  avenues,  three  hundred  feet  wide,  on  either  side  of  which  are 
uplifts  of  rocks,  and  on  the  top  of  which  are  trees.  Further  on  are  parks, 


134  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

grottos,  rills,  vales,  streams,  valleys,  mountains,  and  every  element  necessary  to 
make  a  most  imposing  scene.  These  avenues  are  lined  with  trees,  and  ihe  small 
road  which  winds  through  them  reminds  one  of  the  magnificent  domain  of  an 
English  lord  rather  than  nature's  handiwork.  An  artificial  park  of  this  charac 
ter  would  cost  at  least  ten  million  dollars. 

THEKE'S  a  spot  in  the  woodland 

My  heart  longs  to  see, 
Where  streamlets  are  dancing 

With  laughter  and  glee  ; 
Where  the  sweet  daffodil 

And  the  daisies  are  seen, 
And  the  deer  loves  to  sport 
On  its  mantle  of  green. 

Chorus. 

In  the  valley  of  Ouster, 
The  park  with  its  cluster 
Of  little  log  cabins  spread  out  on  the  green, 
'Tis  the  valley  of  Ouster, 
Where  oft  we  did  muster, 
And  drank  to  the  brave  from  the  soldier's  canteen. 

Oh,  the  flower  of  that  valley, 

Whose  bright  name  it  bears,  . 

Now  sleeps  near  the  river, 

Away  from  life's  cares. 
But  still  there's  a  spot 

Holds  his  mem'ry  most  dear, 
The  heart  of  each  comrade — 

Each  brave  pioneer. 

Chorus. 

The  pine  trees  are  sighing 

On  hill-tops  around  ; 
We  hear  not  his  voice, 

Nor  the  sweet  bugle  sound. 
Our  tears  wet  the  sod 

On  that  terrible  morn, 
When  God  called  the  roll 

On  the  "  Little  Big  Horn." 

Chorus. 


GOOD-BY.  135 


GOOD-BY. 

To  one  who  had  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  watched  by  my  bed?ide  night  and 
day  until  convalescent,  after  a  severe  wound. 

GOOD-BY,  my  darling,  since  you  must  away 

To  other  scenes,  and  other  hearts  to  greet  you  ; 
With  me  I  could  not  longer  ask  you  stay, 

Besides,  my  dear,  I  know  not  how  to  treat  you. 
You  and  I  have  led  a  different  life  — 

You  among  the  best  and  most  refined, 
While  I  afloat  upon  a  sea  of  strife 

With  vulgar  men— the  roughest  of  mankind. 

And  yet,  this  heart  that  beats  alone  for  thee— 

This  heart  that  learned  to  love  blue  eyes  so  well — 
Is  just  as  tender  as  a  child's  could  be, 

And  you  can  make  it  heaven  for  rne— ah  !  well. 
Oh,  darling,  you  can  never  know.      God  knows 

The  feelings  of  a  heart  so  nearly  broken. 
And  you,  at  times,  as  cold  as  mountain  snows, 

With  not  one  word  of  love— one  little  token. 

If  I,  deep  in  my  heart,  could  feel 

That  you  were  mine — and  mine  alone— for  life, 
That  you  would,  trusting  to  my  strong  arms,  steal, 

And  some  day  let  me  call  you  little  wife. 
Oh,  God  !  the  thought  most  drives  me  mad,  indeed  ! 

And  why  ?    Your  actions  merit  not  the  thought, 
For  now  you're  almost  anxious  to  be  freed 

E'en  from  my  sight— and  will  I  be  forgot  ? 

If  so,  then  say  the  word.     Do  say 

You  do  not  love  me,  for  suspense  is  pain  ; 
Tell  me,  darling,  ere  you  go  away, 

If  I  have  loved  my  blue-eyed  girl  in  vain  ? 
If  so,  'tis  better,  dear,  for  you  and  me — 

Better  if  the  truth  to  me  you  tell- 
Better,  though  it  breaks  one  heart,  that  we 

Should  meet  no  more— but  say  a  last  farewell ! 


136  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


THE   FIRST  THAT  DIED. 

About  eight  o'clock  olie  evening,  in  the  winter  of  1875,  while  I  was  washing  the 
dishes  after  supper  in  my  cabin,  two  travellers  entered,  hungry,  weary, and  foot 
sore.  After  preparing  supper,  and  giving  them  a  warm  corner  by  the  glowing 
log  fire,  they  told  the  following  story:  The  elder  man,  John  A.  Byers,  for 
merly  captain  of  a  company  in  a  Maryland  regiment,  started  from  Sioux  City 
for  1he  Hills,  and  was  joined  next  day  by  his  companion,  Charley,  a  boy  about 
eighteen  years  of  age.  They  had  travelled  five  hundred  miles,  carrying  their  pro 
visions  and  blankets,  and  after  escaping  a  hundred  dangers  reached  Caster 
City  almost  exhausted.  They  stayed  at  my  cabin  for  nearly  a  week,  when  By 
ers  went  to  Dead  wood.  Charley  remained  and  went  to  work  building  himself  a 
shelter.  In  company  with  another  boy  th'  y  dug  a  hole  in  the  ground,  about  two 
feet  and  a  half  deep,  and  then  carried  poles  on  their  shoulders  with  which  they 
made  a  roof,  making  their  dugout  about  three  logs  high  all  round.  After  cover 
ing  the  roof  with  boughs,  they  spaded  about,  two  feet  of  clay  on  the  top.  Two 
nights  after  the  roof  broke  through,  killing  Charley  outright,  and  nearly  killing 
his  companion.  The  saddest  point  about  this  affecting  incident  was  that  no 
letters,  papers,  or  even  the  slightest  clew  to  his  home  or  friends  could  be  found ; 
all  that,  we  knew  was  that  he  had  walked  all  the  way  from  Sioux  City  to  the 
Black  Hills  to  die  and  start  a  graveyard.  On  that  day,  while  sitting  on  the  green 
beside  his  demolished  cabin,  1  wrote  these  lines: 

POOR  Charley  braved  the  wintry  storms, 
And  footed  it  all  the  way  ; 

And  now  he  is  a  bleeding  corpse- 
He  died  at  dawn  to-day. 

His  is  the  old,  old  story— 

He  saw  bright  prospects  here  ; 

He  left  his  home,  his  friends  and  all — 
Perhaps  a  mother  dear. 

If  so,  God  pity  that  mother, 

Perhaps  alone  and  poor  ; 
When  some  one  breaks  the  blighting  news 

Her  heart  will  break,  I'm  sure, 
To  think  she  never,  never  more 

Will  clasp  him  to  her  breast  ; 
Among  the  peaks  in  Ouster  Park 

Poor  Charley  now  must  rest. 


THOSE   EYES.  137 

Comrades  here  in  the  golden  land 

Will  drop  a  silent  tear 
For  those  poor  Charley  left  behind — 

A  sister  or  mother  dear. 
Perhaps  some  blue-eyed  little  girl, 

With  sunshine  on  her  brow, 
Is  down  upon  her  bended  knees 

And  praying  for  him  now. 

Down  in  the  glade  beside  the  brook 

Our  boy  shall  sleep  to-morrow  ; 
His  weary  march  of  life  is  o'er, 

Now  free  from  care  and  sorrow. 
And  while  we  think  of  home,  and  love, 

And  better  days  in  store, 
We  humbly  pray  to  Him  above, 

And  bow  to  Heaven  once  more. 


THOSE    EYES 

Written  in  Cariboo,  B.  C.,  on  looking  at  the  photo  of  an  old  sweetheart. 

WE  meet  as  strangers  now.     Those  eyes — 
Those  dreamy  eyes— whose  love-light  shone 

On  me  like  sunbeams  from  the  skies, 
And  gazed  so  fondly  in  mine  own, 

No  more  have  warmth,  love,  light,  no  more 

For  me,  as  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Those  witching  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
Beneath  long  silken  lashes  dreaming, 

While  far  from  her  in  Cariboo 

I  oft  have  tried  to  solve  their  meaning  ; 

While  something  whispers  as  I  sigh — 

Old  boy,  those  flames  were  all  a  lie. 


138  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

THE   PICNIC  BY   THE  BKOOK. 

SONG  AND   DANCE. 

Written  for  Miss  Nellie  MtHenry,  of  Saulsbury*  s  Troubadours. 

I  HAVE  wandered  o'er  the  prairie 

When  the  roses  were  in  bloom  ; 
I  have  listened  to  the  streamlets 

In  the  cheery  month  of  June  ; 
While  the  mocking-birds  were  singing 

I  have  listened  in  the  dell, 
But  nothing  ever  cheered  me 

Like  the  voice  of  little  Nell. 

Chorus. 
For  she's  sweeter  than  the  lilies  by  the  brook, 

And  her  voice  is  like  the  streamlets  in  the  dell  ; 
It  echoes  back  from  every  little  nook, 

And  the  stars  are  not  so  bright  as  little  Nell. 

By  the  brook  she  sang  so  sweetly 

That  my  heart  was  all  aglow, 
And  then  she  danced  so  neatly, 

With  her  light  fantastic  toe, 
Can  you  wonder  I  was  captured  ? 

But  I  fear  it's  wrong  to  tell 
How  I  enjoyed  that  picnic 

By  the  brook  with  little  Nell. 

Chorus. 

She's  as  pretty  as  a  picture, 

And  her  heart  is  full  of  glee, 
And  how  my  heart  was  beating 

When  she  looked  and  smiled  on  me. 
But,  indeed,  I'll  never  whisper 

How  in  love  with  her  I  fell  ; 
For  I  hear  she's  got  a  lover, 

This  bewitching  little  Nell. 

Chorus. 


AFTER  TAPS.  139 

Yet,  no  matter  where  I  wander, 

Over  prairie,  land  or  sea, 
The  rippling  of  the  waters 

Will  repeat  her  songs  to  me. 
Tho'  she  leaves  for  far  Australia, 

I  shall  always  wish  her  well  — 
Good-by  to  brookside  picnics 

And  the  voice  of  little  Nell. 

Chorus. 


AFTER  TAPS. 

DEAE  comrades,  Grant  is  laid  away, 

Our  chief  has  gone  to  rest ; 
What  matter  where  they  plant  his  clay, 

To  you  who  loved  him  best  ? 
And  since  the  North  and  South  combine, 

'Twas  all  he  asked  from  you, 
Though  after  taps  his  deeds  will  shine 

Till  Gabriel  sounds  tattoo. 

And  how  your  thoughts  went  back  again 

To  days  of  long  ago, 
When  near  him,  at  the  battle's  front, 

With  loyal  hearts  aglow. 
And  as  you  marched  behind  his  bier 

From  morn  till  set  of  sun, 
You  thought  he  must  be  very  near 

To  Abe  and  Washington. 

And  Lee  was  there  to  greet  him,  too, 

And  say,  "  Friend  Grant,  just  see, 
The  sunny  South  has  sent  Fitz-Hugh 

To  say  a  word  for  me." 
There's  Gordon  too,  and  Little  Phil ; 

There's  Sherman,  Buck,  and  Joe, 
And  Stonewall  says  'tis  Heaven's  will — 

There's  peace  and  love  below. 


140 


THE   POET   SCOUT. 


KIT  CAKSON. 

(Adios,  Companero.) 

ADIOS,  dear  old  hero,  in  peace  may  you  slumber, 
Adown  near  the  banks  of  the  old  Bio  Grande  ; 

We  think  of  thy  daring  with  awe  and  with  wonder, 
As  near  to  thy  tomb  now  uncovered  we  stand. 

A  rude,  simple  tablet,  a  plain  slab  of  marble, 

Is  all  that  your  comrades  have  placed  o'er  your  grave. 

Sleep  on,  loyal  heart,  while  the  wild  song-birds  warble 
An  anthem  of  praise  to  the  deeds  of  the  brave. 

The  veil  of  the  future  thy  brave  soul  hath  riven 

To  drink  in  the  sweetest  celestial  joys  ; 
In  advance  thou  has  taken  the  trail  up  to  heaven 

To  locate  a  camp  for  the  rest  of  the  boys. 


TO    CHARLEY.  141 

TO   CHARLEY. 

MY   DEAR    OLD    PARD. 

LONELY  to-night  in  my  little  log  cabin, 

I  am  thinking  of  you  and  the  days  long  ago, 
When  together  we  sat  on  the  peak  of  old  Harney, 

Drinking  the  grandeur  of  nature  below. 
True,  it  was  grand,  and  well  I  remember 

The  rapture  that  beamed  in  your  bright  sunny  eyes 
As  you  looked  through  the  glass  tow'rd  the  valley  of  Custer, 

With  her  thousands  of  peaks  towering  up  to  the  skies. 

Then  did  we  picture  the  great  Eastern  cities, 

Comparing  the  grandeur  of  nature  and  art, 
While  you  said— no  art  can  compare  with  this  picture  ; 

And  I  acquiesced  from  the  depths  of  my  heart  ; 
For  e'en  when  a  boy  I  loved  the  wild  mountains, 

The  green,  flowery  valleys,  the  laughter  of  rills  ; 
And  often  in  fancy  and  dreamland  I  wander 

Back  to  my  boyhood  among  the  wild  hills. 

My  comrades,  the  brave  pioneers  of  the  mountains, 

Loved  their  young  chieftain,  and  I  loved  him  too  ; 
The  reason  was  fully  explained  at  your  cabin, 

The  day  that  I  borrowed  that  bronco*  from  you. 
And  when  we  returned  from  the  chase  the  next  morning, 

Your  welcoming  shout  and  your  honest  embrace 
Was  more  to  me  then  than  the  laurels  of  glory, 

Won  by  the  proudest  of  all  Adam's  race. 

*  Charley  W.  was  the  special  correspondent  of  the  Kansas  City  Times  for  the 
Black  Hills.  When  Charley  first  made  my  acquaintance  I  was  sitting  astride  of 
a  half-cut  log  on  my  half-built  cabin  We  had  many  hunts  together,  and  on  one 
occasion  the  Indians  got  our  whole  camp  outfit,  together  with  my  saddle,  field- 
glasses,  and  my  saddle  bags,  containing  my  scrap-book,  which  contained  copies 
of  scraps  I  had  saved  for  over  six  years.  One  morning  the  Indiana  ran  off  with 
sixteen  head  of  horses,  and  my  white  charger  among  the  rest.  I  rushed  down 
to  Charley's  tent,  aud  he  gave  me  his  bronco  to  go  after  the  reds.  Twelve  of 
our  boys  starred,  and  we  returned  next  day  with  eight  of  the  stolen  horses, 
which  the  Indians  were  forced  to  drop. 


142  THE  POET  SCOUT. 

Oh,  what  a  life— away  from  temptation — 

Away  from  the  snares  of  life's  busy  throng, 
Singing  in  chorus  those  odes  of  the  woodland 

In  notes  that  were  tuned  by  the  mocking-bird's  song. 
In  ignorant  bliss,  and  oh,  how  much  better 

Than  knowledge  that's  only  acquired  to  deceive, 
By  hypocrites  robbing  the  widow  and  orphan, 

And  crimes  that  are  almost  too  vile  to  believe. 

And  yet  how  I  yearned  for  the  knowledge  you  gave  me, 

For  you  were  the  first  who  had  taken  my  hand — 
You  were  the  first  to  encourage  me  onward, 

And  picture  my  future  in  language  most  grand  ; 
And  since  then  my  verses,  the  fruit  of  my  nature, 

These  unpolished  roughs,  the  impulse  of  my  heart, 
Have  found  some  admirers  e'en  among  critics 

Well  versed  in  literature,  science  and  art. 

Thus  while  the  bright  star  of  hope  is  before  me 

I  still  shall  continue  to  work  with  a  will  ; 
Determined  to  scale  all  the  heights  of  misfortune, 

And  slowly  creep  over  adversity's  hill. 
Then,  my  dear  friend,  when  the  height  of  ambition 

Is  mine— and  way  up  on  the  summit  I  stand— 
I  shall  think  of  the  comrade  who  first  gave  me  courage — 

Who  gave  me  new  life  and  a  brother's  right  hand. 
IN  THE  MOUNTAINS,  February  28,  1879. 


ODE  TO  CAKIBOO  FKIENDS. 

AT  last  I  must  leave  you,  dear  home  in  the  mountains, 

At  last  say  farewell  to  your  dear  Cariboo  ! 
No  longer  to  sip  from  its  bright  pearly  fountains 

The  cool  draught  of  water  distilled  from  the  dew. 
Oh,  Barker,  fair  village,  adown  by  the  brook-side, 

Where  millions  have  sprang  from  thy  watery  breast, 
Fear  not  for  thy  future,  fair  queen  of  the  mountains, 

For  millions  and  millions  are  still  'neath  each  crest. 


143 


I  feel  it,  believe  it,  God  knows  I  speak  truly, 

And  would  that  some  others  might  speak  as  they  believe  ; 
But  when  experts  grow  zealous,  Oh,  Lord,  how  unruly  ! 

And  in  their  excitement  don't  care  to  deceive. 
But  Time  is  a  worker  much  better  than  experts, 

Though  slowly,  yet  surely,  he  makes  all  things  right  ; 
And  so  when  some  experts  are  dead  and  forgotten, 

Your  dear  Cariboo  will  be  prosperous  and  bright. 

Farewell,  dear  old  comrades,  you  old  Forty-niners, 

God  bless  you,  dear  boys,  till  I  meet  you  again  ! 
Which  will  be  ere  the  snowflakes  have  covered  your  cabins, 

So  sure  as  the  sunshine  which  follows  the  rain. 
Leave  you  forever  ?    How  could  you  believe  it — 

Leave  all  the  home  I  have  got  in  this  world  ? 
No  !  and  returning  I  never  will  leave  it 

Till  justice  is  done  and  the  truth  is  unfurled. 
BAEKEEVILLE,  B.  C. 


OUR     "JACK." 

IN  MEMOBIAM. 

Lines  written  on  the  death  of  John  Bilsland,  who  was  killed  by  a  slide  of  snow 
while  attempting  to  get  it  off  the  shaft-house  on  Burns' s  Creek,  Cariboo,  March 
13th,  1879. 

AND  still  they  go,  the  very  beat, 

Cut  down  in  their  youth  and  bloom. 
There's  something  amiss  in  this  region  of  ours, 
I  reckon  we  must  have  offended  the  powers, 
For  the  Lord  is  culling  our  favorite  flowers, 

And  another  is  laid  in  the  tomb  ; 
Another  is  laid  'neath  the  sod  to  rest — 

Killed  before  life  had  its  noon. 

I  have  seen,  sometimes,  on  the  battle  field, 

The  pride  of  our  company  fall, 
But  I  never  felt  as  I  did  that  day 
"When  they  told  me  that  Jack  had  passed  away — 


144  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

Jack,  who  was  always  happy  and  gay, 
And  one  who  would  spend  his  all. 

Prospecting  deep,  taking  chances  of  yield, 
He  would  stand  with  his  boys  or  fall. 

Escaping  the  perils  of  land  and  sea, 

Unharmed  for  many  a  year, 
And  standing  now  by  the  shaft  house  door, 
As  oft  he  stood  in  the  days  of  yore  ; 
Then  up  the  ladder,  on  roof  once  more, 

A  man  who  knew  no  fear. 
Then  down  with  the  cruel  snow  went  he— 

No  friend,  no  comrade  near. 

A  good  yet  peculiar  man  was  Jack, 

And  a  thoroughbred  mountaineer  ; 
No  matter  what  hurt,  he  would  never  squeal — 
His  name  was  honor,  and  true  as  steel — 
And  his  comrades  say  he  could  build  a  wheel 

You  could  turn  with  a  single  tear  ; 
You  smile— but  I  reckon  I'm  on  the  track, 
Which  to  look  at  his  work  would  appear. 

One  characteristic  I  want  to  note, 

Though  he  had  no  child  of  his  own, 
How  the  children  all  to  Jack  would  come 
And  say  :  "  Uncle  Jat,  has  oou  dot  some  dum  ?' 
"  No,  but  you  bet  I'll  get  you  some." 

And  his  eyes  with  rapture  shone, 
And  voice  like  a  chime  of  bells  afloat, 
With  music  in  each  tone. 

The  best  mechanic  without  a  doubt 
(And  I  believe  I  can  see  it  now), 

Perhaps  they  have  struck  it  rich  up  there  ; 

And  hunting  in  vain,  they  could  not  scare 

A  man  who  could  build  a  wheel  to  compare 
With  Jack.     So,  to  show  them  how, 

The  angel  of  death  put  his  light  right  out, 
And  I  reckon  he's  there  with  them  now. 


UNDER   THE   SOD.  145 

All  I  can  say,  I  must  wish  him  well, 

If  he's  taken  some  heavenly  stock, 
For  a  prospect  there  on  the  heavenly  shore 
Js  better  than  millions  of  gold  in  store. 
And  they  say  there  are  chances  for  millions  more, 

Who  can  find  (if  they  try)  the  bed  rock — 
That  rock  of  ages,  which  yields  so  well, 

And  Christ  is  the  key  to  the  lock. 


UNDER  THE  SOD. 

TO  JOHN  P. 

Lines  on  ihe  Death  of  Edwin  L.  Jones. 

UNDER  the  sod  he  is  sleeping  to-day, 

Close  by  the  sea-girdled  shore  ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew  and  the  clay, 

We  can  look  on  his  face  nevermore. 
Jovial,  kind-hearted,  good-natured  and  free  — 
In  peace  let  him  sleep  'neath  the  shade  of  the  tree 
In  the  land  that  he  loved. 

Under  the  sod  they  have  laid  him  to  rest, 
The  lover  of  right  and  the  hater  of  wrong  ; 

As  honest  a  man  as  ever  God  blest, 

His  love  for  a  friend  everlasting  and  strong. 

And  if  for  the  wise  and  the  good  there  is  rest, 

Then  Edwin  is  surely  at  home  with  the  blest, 
For  the  heavenly  gates  were  ajar. 

Under  the  sod  near  the  murmuring  sea, 
So  far  from  the  home  of  his  childhood  ; 

So  far  from  the  cabin  and  old  mountain  tree, 
Where  he  sported  with  Sam  in  the  wildwocd. 

His  trials  are  over,  his  good  deeds  are  done, 

His  battles  are  fought  and  the  victory  is  won, 
And  Edwin  has  gone  to  his  God. 


146  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

THE  OLD  MINER. 

To  the  Boys  of  Cariboo. 

I's  a  miner,  I  ar't  an'  a  good  un. 

It's  nigh  onto  forty  year 
Since  first  I  landed  at  'Frisco, 

A  youngster — with  lots  o'  good  cheer  ; 
I  waltzed  right  inter  the  placer, 

An'  struck  it— you  bet  yer  boots. 
But  I  dropped  it  a-buckin'  the  tiger, 

Along  with  some  other  galoots. 

But  that  didn't  dampen  my  ardor. 

Ye  see  I  war  hearty  an'  strong, 
An'  I  know'd  by  exertin'  my  muscle, 

I'd  fetch  it  agin  afore  long  ; 
So  back  to  the  diggin's  I  travelled, 

But  somehow  about  that  time 
There  war  heaps  of  the  boys  sick  with  fever, 

While  I  took  ague  in  mine. 

Wall,  I  thinned  right  down  to  a  wafer, 

My  clothes  war  too  big  for  my  chest, 
I  could  made  a  respectable  great-coat 

By  jist  tuckin'  sleeves  in  my  vest ; 
But  the  diggin's  war  very  onhealthy, 

An'  so  for  a  permanent  cure 
I  struck  for  high  ground  on  the  mountains 

For  pastures  not  greener,  but  newer. 

Now  here's  where  I  thought  that  I  struck  it, 

This  time  it  war  quartz  as  I  found, 
An'  so  I  kept  pokin'  an'  gaddin' 

Till  one  day  a  stranger  come  round. 
An'  told  me  as  how  he  war  huntin' 

A  permanent  place  to  reside  ; 
An'  so  I  sez,  "  Here  ar'  my  fortin, 

And  plenty  for  you,  pard,  beside." 


MY    OWN   MOUNTAIN  JTREE.  147 

He  stayed  with  me  two  weeks,  then  wilted  ; 

Said  he,  pard,  I've  bin  thar  afore  ; 
It  'tain't  no  use  workin'  for  nothin', 

An'  for  grub  we  war  nigh  run  ashore  ; 
So  he  left  me  ;  an'  bout  a  week  after 
.    Another  come  joggin'  along, 
With  plenty  o'  grub.     So  I  sold  out  ; 

He  bought  me  for— well,  just  a  song. 

Now  I  never  did  swar,  Hain't  my  iiater, 

But,  Lord  !  when  I  heerd  o'  their  game, 
I  reckin  the  air  smelt  o'  brimstone — 

Wall,  swarin'  ar'  too  mild  a  name. 
This  rooster  (who'd  bin  thar  afore,  mind) 

War  an  expert  from  'Frisco,  ye  see  ; 
So  he  skinned  out,  and  sent  his  stool  pigeon 

To  work  that  bonanza  for  me. 

Since  then  I've  been  down  on  these  experts, 

Like  him  as  has  been  here  with  you  ; 
He  comad  like  the  rest  do  from  'Frisco, 

An'  hark  ye— condemned  Cariboo. 
Now,  pards,  I's  an  old  veteran  miner, 

My  ha'rs  have  grown  gray  in  the  biz, 
Don't  go  a  cent  on  this  expert, 

My  'pinion  '11  stand  agin  his. 


MY   OWN    MOUNTAIN    TREE. 

Written  on  the  back  of  a  photograph,  under  a  palm  tree,  in  Los  Angeles, 
California. 

UNDER  a  palm  tree  reclining, 

Away  from  the  turmoil  and  strife, 

The  sun  in  his  glory  is  shining- 
All  nature  seems  grafted  with  life  ; 

The  birds  sing  as  sweetly  above  me, 
So  happy  are  they  in  their  glee  ; 

But  give  me  the  dear  friends  who  love  me, 
And  birds  on  my  own  mountain  tree. 


148  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


MOTHER'S   PRAYERS. 

Ix  the  dreary  hours  of  midnight, 

When  the  camp's  asleep  and  still, 
Not  a  sound,  save  rippling  streamlets, 

Or  the  voice  of  the  whippoorwill, 
Then  I  think  of  dear,  loved  faces, 

As  I  steal  around  my  beat — 
Think  of  other  scenes  and  places, 

And  a  mother's  voice  so  sweet. 

Mother,  who,  in  days  of  childhood, 

Prayed  as  only  mothers  pray  : 
Guard  his  footsteps  in  the  wild  wood, 

Let  him  not  be  led  astray  ; 
And  when  dangers  hovered  o'er  me, 

When  my  life  was  full  of  cares, 
Then  a  sweet  form  passed  before  me, 

And  I  thought  of  mother's  prayers. 

Mother's  prayers  !     Ah  !  sacred  memory, 

I  can  hear  her  sweet  voice  now, 
As,  upon  her  death-bed  lying, 

With  her  hand  upon  my  brow, 
Calling  on  a  Saviour's  blessing, 

Ere  she  climbed  the  Golden  Stairs. 
There's  a  sting  in  all  transgressing, 

When  I  think  of  mother's  prayers. 

And  I  made  her  one  dear  promise- 
Thank  the  Lord,  I've  kept  it,  too  ; 

Yes,  I  promised  God  and  mother 
To  the  pledge  I  would  be  true. 

Though  a  hundred  times  the  tempter 
Every  day  throws  out  his  snares, 

I  can  boldly  answer,  "No,  sir  ! " 
When  I  think  of  mother's  prayers. 


150  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

And  while  here,  I  tell  the  story 
Why  my  boyhood's  days  were  sad  ; 

Is  there  not  some  one  before  me 
Who  will  make  a  mother  glad? 

Swell  her  heart  with  fond  emotion- 
Drive  away  life's  bitter  cares  ; 

Sign  and  keep  the  pledge  for  mother — 
Heed  thy  mother's  earnest  prayers. 

There  is  no  one  on  the  prairie 

Who  must  say  it  more  than  I — 
No — I  never  drink.     I  thank  you, 

1  can  never  take  your  rye  ; 
And  there's  not  in  many  hundreds 

Not  a  man  who  ever  dares 
Ask  me  drink  when  I  have  told  him 

How  I  thought  of  mother's  prayers. 

Oh,  my  brother,  do  not  drink  it, 

Think  of  all  your  mother  said  ; 
While  upon  her  death-bed  laying, 

Or  perhaps  she  is  not  dead  ; 
Don't  you  kill  her,  then,  I  pray  you, 

She  has  got  enough  of  cares. 
Sign  the  pledge,  and  God  will  help  you, 

If  you  think  of  mother's  prayers. 


"COHPOKAL  BILL." 

A  CAMP  in  the  mountains.     The  pine-knot  fire 
Drove  the  gloomy  shadows  up  higher  and  higher, 
Till  trees,  and  rocks,  and  the  purling  stream, 
And  the  sun-tanned  faces  were  all  agleam 
With  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  dancing  light, 
That  shone  like  a  gem  in  a  setting  of  night. 
Around  the  fire  sat  a  picturesque  group — 
A  small  detail  from  a  cavalry  troop  : 


"COKPOKAL   BILL."  151 

Bronzed  old  soldiers,  who  knew  no  fear, 

Who  had  served  as  vets  on  that  wild  frontier  ; 

Who  were  used  to  the  fray  and  the  night  alarms 

From  painted  demons,  who  came  in  swarms. 

Near  by  their  horses  were  cropping  the  grass 

That  grew  up  wild  in  the  mountain  pass, 

And  near  to  the  saddle-pillowed  head 

Of  each  grass-cushioned,  blanketed  bed 

Lay  carbines  and  pistols,  near  at  hand, 

In  easy  reach  of  the  scouting  band, 

If  the  picket,  who  up  on  a  cliff  laid  low, 

Should  give  the  alarm  of  a  coming  foe. 

Around  the  carnp  fire  the  warrior  throng 

Enlivened  the  hours  with  story  and  song, 

And  merry  laughter,  borne  out  on  the  breeze, 

Went  rippling,  echoing  up  through  the  trees. 

Hark  !    The  sound  of  a  horse' s  hoofs  were  heard 

Coming  up  the  gulch  like  a  fleeting  bird, 

And  the  soldiers  grasped  their  arms,  and  stood 

With  eager  eyes  peering  into  the  wood. 

From  the  sombre  shadows  came  dashing  out 

A  steaming  horse  and  a  buckskinned  scout. 

A  scout  from  the  fort !    The  blue-clad  men 

Laid  down  their  trusty  rifles  again, 

And  stood  and  waited  with  eager  ear 

The  news  from  the  busy  world  to  hear. 

The  scout  dismounted,  and,  bowing  his  head, 

But  four  words  whispered — "  Boys,  Grant  is  dead  !" 

There  were  trembling  lips  and  pain-marked  eyes, 

And  tears,  and  mutterings  of  surprise, 

But  not  a  word  was  spoken  until, 

In  a  trembling  voice,  old  Corporal  Bill 

Cried  out,  "Jack,  boy,  don't  say  it  is  true  ! 

Don't  say  it  is  taps — it  may  be  tattoo  ! 

Maybe  he  is  waiting  for  orders  to  go — 

But  tell  us— oh,  tell  us  it  is  not  so  ! 

Grant  dead  !    Oh,  no— come,  come,  old  Jack, 

Jes'  say  it's  a  joke,  an'  take  it  back  1 


152  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

Yes,  please  do,  comrade  -  jes'  crack  a  smile, 

An'  tell  us  you've  galloped  many  a  mile 

To  have  a  little  fun  with  the  boys, 

An'  check  fur  a  while  their  camp-fire  joys  ; 

Do  this,  ol'  pard,  an'  we'll  laugh  an'  sing 

Till  the  echo  comes  back  with  a  merry  ring ! 

Too  true?  Ah  !  yes  ;  I  know  by  yer  look 

It's  as  true  as  the  word  in  the  holy  book, 

An'  it  cuts  my  heart  like  a  knife  !  Why,  men, 

I've  fought  under  Grant  again  an'  again  ; 

My  ol'  commander,  back  in  the  days 

When  the  South  with  the  flames  o'  war  was  ablaze. 

I've  followed  him  over  many  a  field 

Whar  smoke-blackened  columns  quivered  an'  reeled 

With  the  dreadful  shock  of  an  iron  hail 

That  would  make  the  face  of  the  stoutest  pale  ! 

I  have  followed  him  through  the  lead-blazed  wood 

Whar  the  leaves  war  speckled  with  hero  blood, 

An'  out  over  many  a  battle  plain 

Whar  the  ground  war  heaped  with  the  warriors  slain3 

An'  the  piercin'  rays  o'  the  sun  \var  broke 

An'  held  in  check  bjT  the  clouds  o'  smoke 

That  poured  from  many  an  iron  throat, 

An'  hung  overhead,  an'  seemed  to  gloat, 

Like  black-faced  demons,  from  realms  of  woe, 

O'er  the  fearful  carnage  an'  death  below  ! 

The  upturned  faces,  in  death  so  pale  ! 

f  he  dreadful  song  o'  the  leaden  hail ! 

The  quivering,  mutilated  flesh  ! 

The  piercin'  yells  o'  the  mad  secesh  ! 

The  shriekin',  howlin',  screamin' shell  ! 

Why,  men,  it  must  'a-looked  like  hell, 

With  a  million  devils,  in  impish  glee, 

Turned  loose  on  a  holiday  jamboree  ! 

An'  right  on  the  field,  ridin'  here  an'  there, 

His  horse  a-sweatin'  from  every  hair, 

Rode  Grant,  as  cool  as  a  drippin'  spring, 

His  keen  eye  watchin'  the  front  an'  wing, 


THE  VETERAN  AND   HIS   GRANDSON.  153 

A  cigar  half  smoked  in  his  teeth,  his  face 

Bearin'  stern  resolution  in  every  trace. 

Wharever  he  rode  the  men  would  cheer, 

Fur  it  nerved  'em  to  feel  that  he  war  near, 

Fur  they  all  knowed  Grant,  an'  loved  him,  too, 

An'  the  general  loved  his  boys  in  blue. 

An'  now  he  is  dead  !     The  grand  ol*  chief 

Has  resigned  his  post  to  the  last  relief, 

An'  it  chokes  me  up  fur  to  think  that  he 

Should  be  taken,  an'  such  ol'  cusses  as  me 

Are  left,  sort  o'  useless,  here  below, 

In  the  land  that  loved  the  general  so,  . 

Well,  pards,  it  war  God  as  took  him  away — 

He  musters  the  blue  an'  He  musters  the  gray — 

An'  I  reckon  He  needed  that  warrior  grim 

To  serve  as  aid  on  the  staff  with  Him — 

An',  comrades,  who  knows,  in  that  better  land, 

But  God  may  give  him  his  old  command  ? 


THE  VETERAN  AND  HIS  GRANDSON. 

Dedicated  to  Corporal  James  Tanner. 

HOLD  on  !    Hold  on  !    My  goodness,  you  take  my  breath,  my  son,. 

A-firin'  questions  at  me,  like  shots  from  a  Gatlin'  gun — 

Why  do  I  wear  this  eagle  an'  flag  an'  brazen  star. 

An'  why  do  my  old  eyes  glisten  when  somebody  mentions  war? 

An'  why  do  I  call  men  "  comrade,"  an'  why  do  my  eyes  grow  bright, 

When  you  hear  me  tell  your  grandma  I'm  goin'  to  post  to-night? 

Come  here,  you  inquisitive  rascal,  an'  set  on  your  grandpa's  knee. 

An'  I'll  try  an'  answer  the  broadsides  you've  been  a-firin'  at  me. 

Away  back  there  in  the  sixties,  and  long  afore  you  were  born, 
The  news  come  a-nashin'  to  us,  one  bright  an'  sunny  morn, 


154  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

That  some  of  our  Southern  brothers,  a-thinkin',  no  doubt,  'twar  right, 
Had  trailed  their  guns  on  our  banner,  an'  opened  a  nasty  fight. 
The  great  big  guns  war  a-boomin',  an'  the  shot  flyin'  thick  and  fast, 
An'  troops  all  over  the  southland  war  rapidly  bein'  massed, 
An'  a  thrill  went  through  the  nation,  a  fear  that  our  glorious  land 
Might  be  split  an'  divided  an'  ruined  by  mistaken  brothers'  hand. 

Lord  !  but  wa'n't  there  excitement,  an'  didn't  the  boys'  eyes  flash  ? 
An'  didn't  we  curse  our  brothers  fur  bein'  so  foolish  an'  rash  ? 
An'  didn't  we  raise  the  neighbors  with  loud  an'  continued  cheers, 
When  Abe  sent  out  a  dockyment  a-callin'  fur  volunteers? 
An'  didn't  we  flock  to  the  colors  when  the  drums  began  to  beat, 
An'  didn't  we  march  with  proud  step  along  this  village  street  ? 
An'  didn't  the  people  cheer  us  when  we  got  aboard  the  cars, 
With  the  flag  a-wavin'  o'er  us,  and  went  away  to  the  wars? 

I'll  never  forgit  your  grandma  as  she  stood  outside  o'  the  train, 

Her  face  as  white  as  a  snowdrift,  her  tears  a-fallin'  like  rain — 

She  stood  there  quiet  an'  deathlike,  'mid  all  o'  the  rush  an'  noise, 

Fur  the  war  war  a  takin'  from  her  her  husband  an'  three  brave  boys — 

Bill,  Charley,  and  little  Tommy— just  turned  eighteen,  but  as  true 

.An'  gallant  a  little  soldier  as  ever  wore  the  blue. 

It  seemed  almost  like  murder  for  to  tear  her  poor  heart  so, 

But  your  granddad  couldn't  stay,  baby,  an'  the  boys  war  determined  to  go. 

The  evenin'  afore  we  started  she  called  the  boys  to  her  side, 

An'  told  'em  as  how  they  war  always  their  mother's  joy  an'  pride, 

An'  though  her  soul  was  in  torture,  an'  her  poor  heart  bleedin'  an'  sore, 

An'  though  she  needed  her  darlings,  their  country  needed  'em  more. 

She  told  'em  to  do  their  duty  wherever  their  feet  might  roam, 

An'  to  never  forgit  in  battle  their  mother  war  prayin'  at  home, 

An'  if  (an'  the  tears  nigh  choked  her)  they  should  fall  in  front  o'  the  foe, 

She'd  go  to  her  blessed  Saviour  an'  ax  Him  to  lighten  the  blow. 

Bill  lays  an'  awaits  the  summons  'neath  Spottsylvania's  sod, 
An'  on  the  field  of  Antietam  Charley's  spirit  went  back  to  God  ; 
An'  Tommy,  our  baby  Tommy,  we  buried  one  starlit  night 
Along  with  his  fallen  comrades,  just  after  the  Wilderness  fight. 
The  lightnin'  struck  our  family  tree,  an'  stripped  it  of  every  limb, 
A-leavin'  only  this  bare  old  trunk,  a-standin'  alone  an'  grim. 


THE   VETERAN   AND   HIS   GRANDSON.  155 

My  boy,  that's  why  your  grandma,  when  you  kneel  to  the  God  you  love, 
Makes  you  ax  Him  to  watch  your  uncles,  an'  make  '  em  happy  above. 

That's  why  you  sometimes  see  her  with  tear-drops  in  her  eyes  ; 
That's  why  you  sometimes  catch  her  a-tryin'  to  hide  her  sighs  ; 
That's  why  at  our  great  reunions  she  looks  so  solemn  an'  sad  ; 
That's  why  her  heart  seems  a-breakin'  when  the  boys  are  so  jolly  an'  glad  ; 
That's  why  you  sometimes  find  her  in  the  bedroom  overhead, 
Down  on  her  knees  a-prayin',  with  their  pictures  laid  out  on  the  bed  ; 
That's  why  the  old-time  brightness  will  light  up  her  face  no  more, 
Till  she  meets  her  hero  warriors  in  the  camp  on  the  other  shore. 

An'  when  the  great  war  was  over,  back  came  the  veterans  true, 

With  not  one  star  a-missin'  from  that  azure  field  of  blue  ; 

An'  the  boys  who  on  field  o'  battle  had  stood  the  fiery  test 

Formed  posts  o'  the  great  Grand  Army  in  the  North,  South,  East,  an'  the 

West. 

Fraternity,  Charity,  Loyalty,  is  the  motto  'neath  which  they  train — 
Their  object  to  care  for  the  helpless,  an'  banish  sorrow  an'  pain 
From  the  homes  o'  the  widows  an'  orphans  o'  the  boys  who  have  gone 

before, 
To  answer  their  names  at  roll-call  in  that  great  Grand  Army  Corps. 

An'  that's  why  we  wear  these  badges,  the  eagle  an'  flag  an'  star, 
Worn  only  by  veteran  heroes  who  fought  in  that  bloody  war  ; 
An'  that's  why  my  old  eyes  glisten  while  talkin'  about  the  fray, 
An'  that's  why  I  call  men  "  comrade  "  when  I  meet  'em  every  day  ; 
An'  that's  why  I  tell  your  grandma,  "I'm  goin'  to  post  to-night," 
For  there's  where  I  meet  the  old  boys  who  stood  with  me  in  the  fight, 
And,  my  child,  that's  why  I've  taught  you  to  love  an'  revere  the  men 
Who  come  here  a-wearin'  badges  to  fight  those  battles  again. 

They  are  the  gallant  heroes  who  stood  'mid  the  shot  an'  shell, 

An'  follered  the  flyin'  colors  right  into  the  mouth  o'  hell — 

They  are  the  men  whose  valor  saved  the  land  from  disgrace  an'  shame, 

An'  lifted  her  back  in  triumph  to  her  perch  on  the  dome  o'  fame  ; 

An'  as  long  as  you  live,  my  darling,  till  your  pale  lips  in  death  are  mute, 

When  you  see  that  badge  on  a  bosom,  take  off  your  hat  an'  salute  ; 

An'  if  any  ol'  vet  should  halt  you,  an'  question  why  you  do, 

Just  tell  him  you've  got  a  right  to,  fur  your  granddad's  a  comrade  too. 


156  THE  POET   SCOUT. 


LILLIE. 

41  Last  evening,  at  the  Bush  Street  Theatre,  a  beautiful  incident  occuired,  not 
down  on  the  bills,  however,  yet  which  was  highly  appreciated  by  the  large 
audience  present.  It  is  well  kuown  that  Captain  Jack  Crawford,  the  hardy 
mountaineer,  scout,  poet,  and  actor,  has  an  especial  predilection  for  children,  and 
he  is  in  the  zenith  of  his  joy  when  he  has  a  bevy  of  them  around  him,  spinning 
his  extravagant  stories,  and  otherwise  amusing  them.  Last  evening  the  captain 
was  sitting  in  the  orchestra  circle,  when  he  was  espied  by  a  four-year-old  flaxen- 
haired  beauty  across  the  theatre.  Quick  as  thought  she  left  her  mother's  side. 
ran  clear  around  the  circle,  and  without  the  sligh-est  ceremony  seated  herself 
on  the  captain's  lap,  not  only  to  his  surprise,  but,  from  appearances,  to  his 
delight,  for  he  entertained  the  little  'waif  '  the  balance  of  the  evening.  The 
incident  was  a  very  pleasing  one." — San  Francisco  FootligH. 

SHE  left  her  loving  mother's  side 

And  climbed  upon  my  knee — 
A  lovely  little  blue-eyed  child, 

Who  spoke  her  love  for  me. 
I  gazed  upon  the  throng  around, 

On  fashion's  daughters  fair. 
But  not  one  tress  in  all  that  throng 

Could  match  sweet  Lillie's  hair. 

God  bless  her  !    Just  a  little  while 

I  held  her  to  my  breast  ; 
Forgetting  all  life's  cares  at  once, 

I  waited  her  request. 
And  then  in  whispers  soft  and  low, 

And  pointing  over  there, 
Said  she,  "  My  mamma  told  me  once 

That  oou  had  till'd  a  bear." 

I  never  saw  the  play— not  I 

Indeed— I  did  not  care, 
For  I  was  happy  spinning  yarns 

For  little  golden-hair  ; 
And  how  her  little  blue  eyes  shone 

Each  time  a  story  ended, 
And  how  she  almost  shouted  out, 

"  Oh  my,  but  dat  was  sp'endid  !" 


MY   BIRTHDAY.  157 

"  Oh,  dear  !  and  must  we  really  do? 

I  wish  it  wasn't  out  ; 
I  feel  so  very  dood, 

I  wish  dat  I  tood  shout." 
Sweet  angel  !  you  have  brougnt  me  joy, 

And  filled  me  with  delight  ; 
May  angels  guard  you  all  through  life — 

God  bless  you,  child,  good-night ! 


MY  BIRTHDAY. 

MY  birthday  !  yet  'twas  accidental 

That  I  found  it  came  to-day  ; 
Lonely  in  my  cabin  musing, 

How  the  time  does  pass  away — 
Not  a  soul  to  wish  me  gladness, 

Not  a  friend  to  pull  my  ears  ; 
While  my  heart  is  filled  with  sadness, 

Thinking  of  the  passing  years. 

Once  I  had  an  angel  mother — 

How  she  used  to  bring  me  joy  !  . 
Birthdays  one  upon  the  other, 

I  was  still  her  favorite  boy. 
But  the  angels  took  her  from  me  — 

Dead  and  gone  these  many  years — 
She  who  was  my  guardian  angel 

In  this  thorny  vale  of  tears. 

How  she  used  to  pray,  "  God  bless  him  !' 

While  the  tear-drops  filled  her  eyes, 
With  a  mother's  tender  pleading, 

Looking  upward  toward  the  skies. 
Oh,  my  mother  !  if  thy  spirit 

Hovers  near  me  while  alone, 
Bless  once  more  thy  wayward  offspring 

In  this  little  cabin  home. 
IN  THE  MOUNTAINS,  CARIBOO,  March  4. 


158 


THE   POET   SCOUT. 


(Taken  from  " Tic  Tacs,"  by  permission  of  Homer  Lee  Bank-Note  Co.) 


LITTLE  KEVILEE. 

I  HAIN'T  much  love  fur  an  Injun, 

Take  Injuns  as  they  go, 
An'  for  many  a  year  on  this  wild  frontier, 

I've  been  their  bitterest  foe  ; 
An'  I  reckon  as  you  uns  know  me, 

An'  I  ain't  much  given  to  boast, 
But  listen  to  me — I  wouldn't  be 

Unjust  to  an  Injun's  ghost. 

So  jest  let  up  on  that  redskin, 

At  least  fur  a  minute  or  two, 
An'  I'll  tell  you  why  he  ain't  goin'  to  die, 

If  you  b'lieve  w'at  I  say  is  true. 


LITTLE    REVILEE.  159 

Let  rne  attend  to  his  talkin', 

Fur  you  see  he  is  off  n  the  track, 
An'  I'll  try  to  tell  how  he  went  through  hell, 

With  me  but  a  kid  on  his  back. 

Make  no  mistake  ;  I  know  him, 

But  I  reckon  he  don't  know  me — 
Leastwise  he  don't  know  I'm  little  Joe, 

As  they  called  Little  Revilee  ; 
But,  pards,  can't  you  all  remember, 

When  only  a  little  kid, 
Some  kind  word  said  by  a  friend  now  dead, 

That  remains  in  your  heart  deep  hid  ? 

Wai,  so  it  was  with  Scar  Face — 

That  ugly  one-eyed  red, 
An'  you  all  kin  bet  I  won't  forget 

Till  gratitude  is  dead. 
That  uncouth  face  was  handsome 

That  morn  in  Fifty-three, 
When  mother  lay  dead  an'  father  had  fled 

From  his  Little  Revilee. 

They  had  sent  me  fur  ammunition, 
Just  after  the  reds  had  struck  — 

'Twas  a  desperate  trip,  but  I  had  to  skip- 
Fur  a  kid  I  had  lots  o1  pluck  ; 

An'  I  lost  no  time  in  reachin' 
The  camp,  ten  miles  away. 

But  when  I  got  back  to  our  little  shack 
I  had  a  lone  hand  to  play. 

Thar'  lay  my  father  an'  mother, 

An'  as  over  their  bodies  I  stood 
An'  Injun  came  an'  called  me  his  game, 

But  I  made  him  w'at  we  calls  good. 
Then  a  dozen  more  came  on  me, 

An'  with  mother's  head  on  my  knee, 
I  fired  my  last  shot — then  all  was  a  blot 

To  Little  Revilee. 


160  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

« 

When  I  cum  to  myself  an  Injun 

War  bathin'  my  achin'  head, 
While  all  around,  piled  up  on  the  ground, 

Laid  the  hostiles  thick  an'  dead, 
While  the  one  with  me  war  a-bleedin', 

His  face  hacked  up  with  knives — 
.    In  the  dreadful  strife  he  had  saved  my  life 

At  the  cost  o'  a  dozen  lives. 

Now,  I  hain't  much  love  fur  an  Injun, 

Take  Injuns  as  they  go  ; 
But  angels  fell  to  a  place  called  hell, 

An'  thar's  angels  here  below. 
An'  look  ye,  boys,  that's  the  Injun 

As  kept  the  red  niggers  from  me, 
An'  you  hear  me  toot,  if  he  hangs  I  shoot, 

Fur  I'm  still  Little  Eevilee. 

You  hain't  got  nuthin'  agin  him 

But  prowlin'  around  the  camp, 
So  you  all  made  a  lope  for  a  lariat  rope 

To  hang  him  right  up  for  a  scamp. 
But  I  say  he's  goin'  to  travel 

Safe  out  o'  this  chapparel, 
An'   the  very  fust  one  makes  a  play  with  a  gun, 

Will  land  in  a  minute  in  hell. 


DECOKAT10N  DAY. 

COMRADES,  our  nation  is  thinking  to-day 

Of  her  glorious  salvation,  and  counting  the  cost 
Of  the  men  who  are  sleeping  beneath  the  cold  clay — 

The  noble,  the  gallant,  and  brave  that  we  lost — 
That  we  lost !     Yet  how  fondly  we  cherish  their  names — 

How  eager  to  tell  of  the  deeds  they  have  done, 
Their  actions  so  brave,  that  their  glory  and  fame 

Are  pictured  and  told  in  the  battles  they  won ! 


DECORATION   DAY.  161 

Let  our  nation  rejoice,  then,  'mid  sorrow  to-day — 

Let  our  hearts  beat  with  love  for  the  flag  of  the  free  ; 
While  the  widows  and  orphans  are  kneeling  to  pray, 

Great  God  of  the  Universe,  humbly  to  Thee, 
And  we  who  have  safely  returned  from  the  fight, 

Would  ask  Thee,  most  humbly,  dear  Father,  again 
To  watch  o'er  our  actions,  that  we,  by  Thy  might, 

May  show  that  our  comrades  have  not  died  in  vain. 

Dear  comrades,  the  widow  has  come  ;  stand  aside — 
Let  her  kneel  by  the  tomb,  iinresponsive  forever, 
Where  moulders  the  arm  of  the  true  and  the  tried : 

Her  guard  and  protector,  till  war  bid  them  sever. 
Stand  aside,  boys,  she  comes,  as  she's  come  all  these  years, 
With  a  wreath,  lovely  wreath,  all  bespangled  with  tears, 
And  a  prayer,  Heavenly  Father,  when  this  life  is  done, 
Reunite  us  in  heaven  with  loved  Washington. 

The  orphan  has  come,  boys  ;  let  him  have  a  place 
To  look  at  the  orator  straight  in  the  face, 
To  listen  once  more,  hear  recounted  the  story, 
For  his  sire  was  a  soldier,  and  shared  in  the  glory  ; 
And  he,  too,  has  vowed,  on  each  thirtieth  of  May, 
His  love  for  our  Union  ;  God  bless  him  !  we  say. 

The  patriot  is  here  and  the  statesman  has  come, 
The  actor,  the  student,  yea,  every  one  ; 
The  dwellers  in  palace,  and  hovel  so  plain- 
All — all  have  done  honor  to  the  slain. 
Let  the  blossoms  of  May  bow  their  heads  o'er  each  grave, 
And  breathe  bairns  of  sweetness  all  over  the  brave, 
And  lilies,  pure  lilies,  with  roses  so  red, 
Be  strewn  with  a  wreath  on  the  graves  of  the  dead  ; 
While  tears  of  the  widows  and  orphans  like  dew 
Are  mingled  with  flow' rets  of  red,  white,  and  blue. 

And  now  as  these  heroes  lie  sleeping  beneath 

The  Stars  and  the  Stripes,  the  flowers  and  the  wreath, 


162  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

We  think  of  the  trenches  dug  after  the  fight, 
When  wrapt  in  their  blankets  at  dead  of  the  night, 
We  buried  in  hundreds,  yea,  thousands,  the  brave, 
Embracing  each  other  ;  no  mark  o'er  their  grave, 
Save  that  simple  inscription,  one  word  alone, 
You  read  it  with  awe,  and  pronounce  it  "  Unknown." 
And  to-day  of  the  four  hundred  thousand  who  fell, 
The  wife,  and  the  mother,  and  sister,  will  tell, 
Oh,  how  generous,  how  loyal,  how  noble  and  true, 
They  died  for  our  Union,  for  me  and  for  you  ! 

Our  Union  still  lives.     They  have  not  died  in  vain, 

And  to-day  we've  adorned  their  graves  once  again  ; 

But  those  flowers,  and  the  hands  that  have  strewn  them  to-day, 

In  death  will  soon  languish,  and  all  pass  away. 

And  these  monuments,  too,  so  majestic  and  grand, 

Will  crumble  to  dust.     Yet  our  Union  will  stand— 

And  that  is  their  monument,  ours,  too,  as  well, 

Who  fought  by  the  side  of  the  noble  who  fell  ; 

Who  suffered  in  cabin,  in  camp,  and  in  field, 

And  swore  by  yon  flag  that  we  never  would  yield 

Till  that  flag,  lovely  flag,  dearest  flag  of  the  free, 

Should  float,  boys,  in  triumph,  for  you  and  for  me. 

And  here  as  we  gather  to-day  'neath  its  stars, 
And  look  upon  comrades  with  crutches  and  scars, 
And  sleeves,  empty  sleeves,  hanging  loose  by  their  side, 
The  boys  who  survived  'mid  the  thousands  who  died — 
And  yet  do  they  murmur  ?     No,  no  !  nor  complain. 
"Each  man  owes  a  part,"  say  the  wounded  and  maim, 
"  And  we  have  but  acted  our  part  in  the  strife, 
And  gave  but  a  limb,  while  the  dead  gave  their  life. " 
Oh,  comrades,  how  hallowed  the  ground  where  they  sleep — 
Where  the  widows  and  orphans  are  kneeling  to  weep 
O'er  the  brave  who  have  fallen  in  skirmish  and  fight, 
Protecting  that  flag  and  the  cause  that  was  right ! 

And  yet  we  have  still  a  great  duty  to  do — 
Work  on,  loyal  hearts,  until  death's  last  tattoo 


OUR   MAKTYRED   DEAD.  163 

Shall  lull  us  to  rest  'neath  the  flag  of  the  free, 

Till  awakened  by  angels,  a  sweet  reveille, 

From  the  boys  who  have  gone,  and  whose  marching  is  o'er, 

They  are  watching  on  picket,  on  Canaan's  bright  shore. 


OUR  MARTYRED  DEAD. 

GENERAL  E.  D.  BAKER. 

The  following  poem  was  read  by  me  at  the  tomb  of  General  E.  D.  Baker,  on 
Decoration  Day,  1879.  The  three  first  verses  are  mine;  those  following  by 
M.  P.  Griffis,  General  E.  D.  Baker  Post,  Philadelphia. 

SOLDIERS,  comrades,  gather  round  nie, 
List  the  story  I  will  tell 

Of  a  noble,  gallant  soldier- 
One  who  loved  our  flag  so  well. 

Here  he  sleeps  beneath  the  daisies, 
Here,  beneath  the  mossy  sod, 

Near  the  broad  Pacific' s  murmur, 
He  is  mouldering  with  the  clod. 

Oh,  how  brave — methinks  I  see  him' 

Charging— leading,  sword  in  hand, 
With  the  courage  of  our  Custer, 

At  the  head  of  his  command. 
Onward  !  upward  !  rally  !  comrades, 

See  !  the  rebels  giving  way ! 
Ah  !  Ball's  Bluff,  you  had  a  martyr 

When  our  Baker  fell  that  day. 

While  we  gather  round  his  ashes, 

Comrades  far  beyond  the  plain 
Send  a  tribute  to  hismem'ry 

From  the  Post  that  bears  his  name. 
Baker  Post,  in  Philadelphia — 

Boys  who  joined  him  in  the  fray — 
Bade  me  tell  you  how  they  loved  him, 

And  I  speak  for  them  to-day. 


164  THE  POET   SCOUT. 


IN  MEMOBIAM. 

Eighteen  years  have  passed,  dear  comrades, 

Since  the  man  whose  name  we  bear 
Bade  farewell  to  rank  and  station, 

But  a  soldier's  lot  to  share — 
Onward  marching  with  the  army — 

Onward  fighting  for  the  free — 
By  a  pure  and  holy  purpose 

He  was  guided  to  the  sea. 

Oh,  my  comrades,  over  yonder, 

In  the  far  Pacific  State, 
Sleeps  our  brave  commander,  Baker, 

Close  beside  the  Golden  Gate.       % 
Heaven's  dew  will  wet  the  laurels, 

Comrades'  hands  will  strew  sweet  flowers, 
Some  brave  boy  will  read  this  tribute 

O'er  that  martyred  brave  of  ours. 

Tell  the  friends  who  gather  round  you 

How  he  fought  to  gain  the  day  ; 
How,  when  cruel  death  had  marked  him, 

Faint  and  bleeding  in  the  fray. 
Tell  them,  comrades,  how,  when  dying, 

"  Charge  !"  he  said  :    "  Boys,  take  the  hill ! 
Yes,  thank  God  !  I  see  it  waving ! 

See  !  our  flag  is  floating  still !' ' 

Thus  he  died  a  gallant  hero, 

Soldier,  statesman— none  more  grand. 
Strew  his  grave  with  sweetest  flowers. 

Comrades  of  the  sunny  land. 
And  when  death  has  claimed  our  army, 

When  life's  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
May  we  meet  our  martyred  Baker, 

Now  at  peace  for  evermore. 


OFF  TO   THE  PICNIC.  165 

OFF  TO  THE  PICNIC. 

To  ye  Sons  o'  Caledonia. 

AWA',  ye  brawny  sons  o'  Scotland  ! 

Up  the  banks  and  doon  the  braes, 
Through  the  Hielands  o'  Nevada, 

Sing  yo'r  songs  o'  ither  days  ; 
Yet  it's  no  rich  gowrey's  valley, 

Nor  the  Forth' s  dear  sunny  side  ; 
Nor  the  wild  and  mossy  mountain, 

Father  of  the  placid  Clyde. 

Yet  just  for  the  while  imagine 

Ye  are  back  on  Scotia' s  shore, 
'Mang  the  braes  and  grouse  and  heather 

Where  the  Highland  waters  roar  ; 
'Mang  the  groves  o'  sweetest  myrtle, 

Or  perhaps  aside  the  Doon, 
Thinking  o'  young  Bobbie's  courtship 

By  the  light  o'  bonnie  moon. 

Noble,  brave,  unselfish  poet ! 

Don't  forget  him  'mid  yo'r  joys  ; 
Fill  and  drink  to  him  a  bumper — 

He  was  nature's  bard,  my  boys. 
One  o'  Scotland's  noblest  freemen, 

Spurning  lords  and  lairds  and  crown  ! 
Here's  to  Scotia's  bard  and  poet — 

Bobbie  Burns — boys,  drink  her  down. 

Up  in  Heaven  wi'  Highland  Mary, 

Burns  now  sings  a  sweeter  song  ; 
He  is  wearing  brighter  laurels 

Than  the  men  who  did  him  wrong. 
"  Scots  wha  hae,"  methinks  I  hear  it— 

"  Bonnie  Doon,"  ah  !  how  sublime  ; 
At  yo'r  picnic  drink  this  bumper — 

"  Bobbie  Burns  and  Auld  Lang  Syne  !" 
GOLD  HILL,  NEV. 


166  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


CATO'S  IDEAS 

ON  THE   NEW   CHURCH  DOCTRINE. 

I  WENT  to  church  last  Sunday, 

Which  I  allers  want  to  do, 
To  hea'  dat  same  old  story, 

But  I  hea'  ub  sumfin  new  ; 
An',  wife,  old  Deacon  Johnson, 

Who  allers  preached  so  well, 
Come  out  an'  tol'  us  darkeys 

Dar  wasn't  any  hell. 

Wharfor'  he  tol'  dat  story 

Is  sumfin  I  don't  know, 
Kase  if  dar  ain't  no  debil, 

Whar  will  dem  wicked  go  ? 
Kase  'tain't  no  use  in  preachin' 

If  Adam  nebber  fell, 
An'  'tain't  no  use  in  pray  in' 

If  cussin'  does  as  well. 

Now,  dis  chile  ain't  no  angel, 

But  3  ou  hea'  Cato  talk — 
Dar's  sumfin  gwine  to  happen 

If  'gainst  de  Lord  we  balk  ; 
Kase  if  der  was  no  'Mighty, 

Dat  sun  he  nebber  shine, 
An'  you  jest  bet  sich  preachin* 

Ain't  gwine  to  win  dis  time. 

I  can' t  jest  understan'  it, 

Kase  jest  two  weeks  ago 
He  tol'  us  how  ole  Satan 

Was  roamin'  to  an'  fro  ; 
An'  now  dar  ain't  no  debil, 

An'  no  sich  place  of  fire  ; 
Dis  chile  don't  take  no  chances— 

I's  gwine  to  clim'  up  higher. 


MY   HEKO.  167 


MY  HEKO. 

MY  Hero  !  The  wealth  of  the  world  could  not  purchase  the  noble  fel 
low.  IJe  is  a  grand  specimen  of  the  Albino  St.  Bernard,  white  as  the 
driven  snow,  with  large  hazel  eyes  that  beam  with  almost  human  intel 
ligence,  and  he  weighs  one  hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds.  But  for 
his  love  and  devotion  my  body  would  to-day  be  buried  in  the  treacher 
ous  quicksand  over  which  the  Rio  Grande  flows  on  its  ceaseless  journey 
to  the  sea.  Captain  S.  C.  Plummer,  of  the  regular  army,  witnessed  my 
rescue  by  my  noble  Hero,  and  telegraphed  the  following  account  of  it  to 
the  Denver  Tribune : 

"Last  Monday  a  number  of  soldiers  went  from  Fort  Craig  to  the  Rio  Grande 
for  a  bath.  Among  them  was  Captain  Jack  Crawford.  After  being  in  the  water 
about  three  quarters  of  an  hour  Captain  Jack  started  to  cross  toward  the  other 
side  over  a  sand-bar,  on  which  the  water  was  only  from  six  inches  to  a  foot  deep. 
Several  of  the  others  followed  Jack,  and  they  had  considerable  fun,  tripping  each 
other  and  rolling  over  in  the  water,  while  two  of  the  boys  got  Jack  down  in  the 
shallow  water  and  tickled  him  in  the  ribs  until  he  was  nearly  exhausted  with 
laughter,  he  being  very  ticklish.  In  order  to  get  away  from  his  tormentors,  Jack 
rolled  over  toward  the  deep  water  at  the  edge  of  the  bar,  and  when  he  got  upon 
his  feet  he  kept  backing  down  strerm,  and  although  there  was  not  over  two 
feet  of  water  where  he  stood,  yet  the  current  was  so  strong  that  it  would  carry 
him  down  should  he  lose  his  footing.  He  kept  splashing  water  on  those  who 
had  been  tickling  him,  and  bantering  them  to  come  on  after  him,  when  suddenly 
he  made  two  or  three  desperate  efforts  to  get  back,  but  failed.  Yet  he  said  not 
a  word,  or  the  others  might  have  joined  hands  and  reached  him.  No  one  dreamed 
for  a  moment  that  he  was  trying  to  extricate  himself  from  the  quicksand.  All 
at  once  he  went  down  like  a  piece  of  lead.  Even  then  we  thought  he  had  taken 
a  dive,  until  he  was  under  water  longer  than  a  man  would  willingly  stay,  and, 
indeed,  no  one  would  have  noticed  this  particularly,  had  we  not  heard  a  peculiar 
pound,  more  like  the  roar  of  a  lion  than  anything  else,  and  the  next  instant 
Jack's  dog  Hero,  a  beautiful  St.  Bernard,  was  seen  swimming  toward  his  master, 
while  he  set  up  a  howl  that  seemed  to  say,  '  I'm  coming.'  Jack  came  up  about 
twenty-five  yards  below  where  he  went  down,  and  right  in  the  centre  of  a  terribly 
swift  current,  near  where  the  river  would  make  a  quick,  sharp  turn.  He  was 
nearly  exhausted  when  the  sand  broke  from  under  him,  and,  striking  a  whirl 
pool,  he  could  make  little  or  no  headway,  and  had  to  use  all  his  strength  to  keep 
from  being  caught  in  the  suction.  Hill,  a  soldier,  orderly  for  General  Hatch, 


168  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

soon  as  he  saw  the  dog  go  for  Jack,  also  sprang  in  the  current,  but  Hero  got  to 
Jack  first,  just  as  he  was  going  down  a  second  time,  and  taking  him  by  the  hair 
of  the  head,  brought  him  above  witer.  Jack,  who  never  lost  his  presence  of 
mind,  caught  the  dog  by  the  back,  just  above  the  hip,  and  the  faithful  Hero 
brought  him  safe  to  shore,  nearly  a  mile  below  where  he  first  went  down.  This 
was  really  a  narrow  escape,  as  an  officer  and  five  soldiers  went  down  nearly  in 
the  same  place  a  few  years  ago,  and  were  never  seen.  A  wagon  and  team  of 
mules  disappeared  in  the  river  a  year  ago,  and  have  not  turned  up  yet." 

Can  you  wonder  that  I  love  my  dog — my  noble,  faithful  Hero  ?  Can 
you  wonder  that  I  hold  him  above  all  price— that  the  riches  of  the  world 
could  not  induce  me  to  part  with  him  ?  But  a  few  months  since  a  New 
York  millionaire  was  at  my  ranch  at  Fort  Craig,  New  Mexico,  and  asked 
me  to  fix  a  price  on  the  dog,  and  in  response  I  wrote  for  him  the  follow 
ing  poem  : 

HERO. 
To  my  Friend  H.  K. 

WHAT'LL  I  take  fur  that  handsome  dorg? 

Wai,  mister,  how  much  are  you  worth  ? 
A  million  !     Ge  whiz  !     That's  a  heap  o'  scads. 

Wai,  I  ain't  got  a  dollar  on  airth, 
An'  I  reckon  as  how  ye' 11  believe  me,  pard, 

When  I  tell  you  I  never  struck  ile ; 
But  Hero's  a  great  big  bonanza  to  me, 

An'  he  couldn't  be  bought  fur  yer  pile. 

Wai,  no,  he's  never  been  trained,  'cause  you  see 

He's  a  kind  of  a  self-made  dog, 
An'  even  when  only  a  bit  of  a  purp 

He  wouldn't  be  seen  with  a  hog. 
An'  he  jest  grow'd  up  with  our  blue-eyed  May, 

An'  they  sported  out  thar  on  the  lee, 
An'  one  day  I  found  'hat  the  noble  ol'  boy 

Had  a  load  of  affection  fur  me. 

An'  you'd  like  the  story?    Wai,  'tain't  very  long — 

Jest  look  at  them  big,  honest  eyes ; 
He  knows  as  how  I'm  talkin'  'bout  him, 

An'  that's  why  he's  lookin'  so  wise, 


170  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

'Cause  he  knows  purty  much  every  word  as  I  say — 
He's  corralled  as  much  sense  as  some  men — 

An',  pard,  if  I  hadn't  a  squar  meal  on  earth, 
He  wouldn't  go  back  on  me  then. 

No,  friendship  like  that  you  don't  see  every  day — 

It's  as  pure  as  the  daisies  that  grow; 
My  Hero  has  no  selfish  motives,  except 

He  expects  all  the  love  I  bestow ; 
An'  if  through  misfortune  the  wolf  hangs  around, 

Or  if  sickness  should  knock  at  my  door, 
You  can  bet  yer  whole  pile  he  will  stay  at  my  side, 

Fur  he's  faithful  an'  true  to  the  core. 

But  why  do  I  love  him?    Wai,  now,  let  me  see — 

It  war  just  about  five  year  ago,  . 

I  war  caught  in  an  eddy — the  old  Rio  Grande, 

If  she  clutches  you,  ha<es  to  let  go. 
Wai,  Hero  jest  lay  on  the  bank  over  thar, 

An'  when  others  war  deaf  to  my  call 
My  Hero  cum  to  me,  an'  why  I'm  alive 

Is  jest  'cause  he  saved  me,  that's  all. 

An'  I  reckon  as  how  you  will  pardon  me,  sir, 

If  I  tell  you  that  gold  cannot  buy 
The  friend  as  has  proved  himself  loyal  to  me, 

Since  I've  told  you  the  wherefore  an'  why  ; 
Fur  even  a  dog  has  a  heart,  don't  yp  know, 

An'  sometimes  it's  loyal  an'  true; 
An'  somehow  I  think,  when  I  look  in  his  eyes, 

As  thar'  must  be  a  dog-heaven,  too. 

When  I  return  to  my  home  Hero  will  be  the  first  to  bound  down  the 
Kio  Grande  hill  to  meet  and  welcome  me  'with  a  joyful  bark— a  bark 
that  will  notify  the  loved  ones  up  in  the  ranch  that  I  am  again  at  home. 
His  noble  white  head  will  be  the  first  to  receive  my  caresses  after  my 
absence,  and  his  will  be  the  first  lovelit  eyes  to  look  into  mine  with 
touching  eloquence.  He  will  lead  me  with  joyful  bounds  up  the  hill  to 
wife  and  children— up  to  the  door  of  my  humble  but  cherished  home  on 
the  banks  of  the  old  Rio  Grande. 


THE   GRAVE   OF   MY   MOTHER.  171 

THE   GRAVE   OF  MY  MOTHER. 

A   SONG. 

To  Mrs.  Emily  Pitt  Stevens,  San  Francisco. 

THEBE'  s  a  green  grassy  mound  in  the  valley  I  love, 

Where  angels  their  vigils  are  keeping  ; 
The  pine  trees  are  singing  a  dirge  far  above, 

The  sky  pearly  tear  drops  is  weeping, 
And  cooing  on  high  is  a  bright  turtle  dove 

O'er  the  grave  where  my  mother  is  sleeping. 

Chorus. 

Peacefully  sleeping,  she  sleeps  'neath  the  clay, 

This  world  cannot  give  me  another  ; 
No  one  to  guide  me,  and  no  one  to  pray, 

While  I  weep  o'  er  the  grave  of  my  mother. 

The  dew-drops  are  falling,  the  evening  is  here, 

And  o'er  me  night's  shadows  are  stealing  ; 
All  nature  is  silent,  good  angels  are  near, 

And  hushed  is  the  harvester' s  reaping, 
While  fondly  I  linger  'mid  memories  dear, 

Near  the  grave  where  my  mother  is  sleeping. 

Chorus. 

Oh,  here  let  me  linger  in  silence  and  bliss, 

While  only  the  starlets  are  peeping, 
And  mix  with  the  dewdrops  a  tear  and  a  kiss, 

O'er  the  grave  where  my  mother  is  sleeping  ; 
For  no  spot  on  earth  is  so  sacred  as  this — 

This  spot  where  my  dear  mother's  sleeping. 

Chorus. 


172  THE  POET   SCOUT. 


NOKA  LEE. 

A   SONG. 

I  HAVE  watched  the  roses  blooming 

And  the  violets'  lovely  hue, 
And  daisies  like  the  starlight 

As  they  sparkled  with  the  dew  ; 
I  have  looked  upon  the  lilies 

And  the  flowers  of  every  tree, 
But  none  were  half  so  pretty 

As  my  blue-eyed  Nora  Lee. 

Chorus. 

She  is  sweeter  than  the  violets, 

She  is  fairer  than  the  rose  ; 
Her  eyes  are  soft  and  tender, 

And  her  cheek  with  beauty  glows. 
Oh,  I  never  can  forget  her, 

Though  she  never  thinks  of  me  ; 
I  love  that  blue-eyed  beauty — 

Little  darling,  Nora  Lee. 

To  my  prairie  home  I'm  going, 

With  my  comrades  brave  and  free, 
And  yet  where'er  I  wander 

Those  blue  eyes  will  follow  me. 
I  shall  see  them  in  the  camp  fire, 

They  will  sparkle  in  the  dell, 
And  in  the  rippling  streamlets 

I  shall  hear  that  last  farewell. 

Chorus. 

God  bless  you,  Jack  !  God  bless  you  ! 

Were  the  words  she  whispered  low  ; 
I  thought  'twas  heavenly  music 

From  her  throat  as  white  as  snow. 


OUR  FIRST   REUNION   AND   CAMP-FIRE.  173 

And  my  heart  beat  in  a  tremor, 

So  she  spake  kind  words  to  me. 
I  wish  I  did  not  love  her  — 

Darling,  blue-eyed  Nora  Lee. 

Chorus. 

I  have  gazed  upon  the  streamlets 

When  the  moon  was  shining  bright, 
The  rippling  of  the  waters 

In  the  summer  noon  of  night. 
I  have  looked  on  nature's  grandeur, 

On  the  prairie,  land,  and  sea, 
But  none  of  them  could  charm  me 

Like  the  voice  of  Nora  Lee. 

Chorus. 

Oh,  no  matter  where  I  wander, 

Her  sweet  image  will  be  there  ; 
Her  blue  eyes  shine  upon  me, 

And  her  voice  be  everywhere. 
And  though  I  pine  in  sorrow, 

She  is  all  the  world  to  me  ; 
May  angels  guard  my  fairy — 

Darling,  blue-eyed  Nora  Lee  ! 

Chorus. 


OUR   FIRST  REUNION   AND   CAMP-FIRE. 

Respectfully  dedicated  to  F.  B.  Gowan,  brother  of  my  brave  colonel,  who  fell 
while  leading  us  in  storming  the  rebel  post  at  Petersburg,  April  2d,  1865. 

WITH  love— which  time  can  never  change — 

We  grasp  each  other's  hands, 
And  think  of  battles  fought  and  won — 

Of  Burnside's  stern  commands  ; 
Bright  memories  of  the  hallowed  past 

Are  stealing  through  our  souls, 
While  thinking  of  the  noble  dead 

Now  mustered  from  our  rolls. 


174  THE  POET   SCOUT. 

At  times  our  hearts  would  almost  bleed, 

And  angels  seemed  to  frown  ; 
But  God  was  on  the  ramparts,  boys, 

"While  the  mortars  tumbled  down  ; 
And  though  at  times  a  boy  was  hit 

"With  a  fragment  of  a  shell, 
We  stood  it — did  we  not,  comrades  ? 

In  the  ramparts  of  Fort  Hell.    . 

And  when  we  went  on  picket, 

With  our  blankets  on  our  arm, 
And  each  a  stick  of  wood,  comrades, 

To  try  and  keep  us  warm  ; 
How  oft  we  thought  of  happy  homes, 

Of  friends  and  parents,  too, 
And  lovely  little  blue-eyed  girls 

Who'd  die  for  me  and  you  ! 

And  often,  when  we  shouted 

Across  to  Johnny  Reb, 
To  throw  us  some  tobacco, 

And  we  would  throw  them  bread, 
How  quickly  they  responded  ! 

And  the  plugs  came  thick  and  fast, 
And  we  shared  them  with  each  other — 

And  shared  them  to  the  last. 

But  though  they  gave  tobacco, 

And  though  we  gave  them  bread, 
Between  the  lines  we  soon  must  see 

The  dying  and  the  dead  ! 
And  though  Mahone  defied  us, 

And  though  her  strength  was  great, 
Who  would  dare  to  charge  them,  boys, 

If  not  our  Forty-eight  ? 

And  when  our  greatest  generals 

Defied  our  boys  alone, 
To  charge  the  enemy  in  front 

And  capture  Fort  Mahone — 


OUR   FIRST   REUNION   AND    CAMP-FIRE.  175 

Oh,  can  you  e'er  forget  it,  boys? 

The  answer  Gowan  sent  : 
"  We'll  take  it,  with  the  help  of  God, 

Or  die  in  the  attempt !" 

And  nobly  on  that  fatal  day 

He  led  us  on  so  well, 
Till  fairly  on  their  ramparts,  boys, 

Our  noble  colonel  fell. 
And  did  you  mark  the  change,  comrades  ? 

Where  was  the  leader  now 
Who  dared  to  lead  us  on  like  he 

Who  fell  with  shattered  brow  ? 

I  need  not  speak  of  others'  deeds 

Who  led  us  on  before — 
Of  Nagle  and  of  Siegfried,  too, 

Brave  Pleasants  and  Gilmore. 
Oh,  no  !  their  names  are  written 

On  a  grateful  nation's  shrine, 
And  nothing  can  erase  them,  boys, 

Until  the  end  of  time. 

Another  word — each  comrade's  heart 

Is  filled  with  gratitude 
To  Siegfried,  Pleasants,  Bosbyshell, 

Who  were  so  kind  and  good 
To  offer  us  a  banquet,  boys, 

Such  as  we  never  saw — 
Much  better  than  the  hard-tack,  boys — 

Hurrah  !  then,  boys,  hurrah  ! 

But  don't  forget,  another  year 

Will  soon  pass  o'er  our  head, 
And  then  we  hope  to  meet  again — 

If  living  ;  but,  if  dead, 
May  we  not  meet  in  heaven,  boys, 

And  see  upon  the  shore 
A  picket  guard  of  angels 

With  Gowan  and  Gilmore  ? 


176  THE   POET   SCOUT. 

X 

THE   BANGERS'    RETREAT. 

A   SONG. 

'Tis  a  dear  little  spot  in  the  valley  I  love, 

And  the  pine  trees  are  waving  above  it  ; 
The  home  of  the  lark,  the  blackbird  and  dove — 

I  never  can  tell  how  I  love  it. 
I've  roamed  through  its  grandeur  with  rifle  in  hand, 

O'er  beautiful  streamlets  and  fountains  ; 
From  Calamity  Bar  the  scene  was  most  grand, 

With  its  moss-covered  rocks  and  its  mountains. 

GJiorus. 

'Tis  cosy,  'tis  cheerful,  that  moss-covered  dell — 
That  dear  little  Eden  where  I  used  to  dwell  ; 
The  flowers  when  in  bloom  cast  a  fragrance  so  sweet 
Through  that  dear  little  valley,  the  Rangers'  Retreat. 

Oh,  'tis  speckled  with  daisies  and  covered  with  dew  ; 

There's  no  spot  so  dear  as  that  valley, 
Where  brothers  met  brotners,  the  brave  and  the  true, 

And  in  danger  'round  each  other  rally. 
The  deer  and  the  antelope  roam  in  the  dell, 

The  mocking-bird  sings  in  the  bushes, 
While  under  the  daisies  the  jack-rabbits  dwell, 

And  the  water-snipe  hides  in  the  rushes. 

Chorus. 

And,  though  I'm  far  from  that  valley  to-day, 

The  scenes  are  all  pictured  before  me  : 
The  deer  are  at  water,  the  birds  are  at  play, 

And  the  skylarks  are  all  singing  o'er  me. 
I  think  I  can  see  my  dear  comrades  of  old, 

The  sound  of  each  rifle  seems  ringing  ; 
The  echo  comes  back  from  that  valley  of  gold, 

While  the  boys  round  the  camp-fires  are  singing. 

Chorus. 


THE   POOR   MAN'S   SOLILOQUY.  177 

THE   POOR  MAN'S   SOLILOQUY. 

AFTEK    POE. 

To  the  Toiling  Millions. 

ONCE,  when  I  was  weak  and  weary, 
And  the  day  was  cold  and  dreary, 
I  was  famished,  almost  starving  — 

Ragged  were  the  clothes  I  wore, 
I  was  thinking  of  suspensions, 
And  the  railroad  king's  intentions, 
For  they  were  then  in  convention, 

Planning  as  they  planned  before  ; 
'Tis  monopoly,  I  whispered, 

And  the  wolf  is  at  our  door— 

This  it  is     and  nothing  more. 

Thus  for  hours  I  sat  and  pondered, 

Sat  and  closed  my  eyes  and  wondered — 

Wondered  why  these  men  of  millions 
Were  not  like  the  men  of  yore  ; 

But  the  answer  came — 'tis  fashion, 

Hoarding  gold  to  please  their  passion, 

With  fancy  teams  forever  dashing- 
Dashing  past  the  poor  man's  door  ; 

Scornfully  they  look  and  mutter, 
As  they  pass  the  poor  man's  door  : 
"  Our  slaves — and  nothing  more." 

Your  slaves  ?     Aye,  chained  and  fettered, 
"  Slave"  on  every  brow  is  lettered  ; 
You  will  sign  to  our  conditions, 

Or  we'll  grind  you  to  the  floor  ; 
You  have,  with  a  weak  subjection, 
Severed  every  free  connection. 
U.  S.  troops  are  our  protection  ; 

You  have  signed  your  names— ye  swore 

To  obey— and  nothing  more. 


178  THE   POET   SCOUT,, 

Oh,  ye  gods  !    And  must  we  languish, 

In  our  poverty  and  anguish  ? 

Starve  while  money  kings  are  planning 

How  to  keep  their  gold  in  store  ? 
Is  our  country  not  enlightened, 
Or  its  heads  like  cowards  frightened, 
That  the  reins  should  not  be  tightened 

On  these  robbers  of  the  poor  ? 
Yes  !     The  toiling  mass  can  do  it ! — 

We  have  changed  such  things  before  ; 

Give  them  power — never  more. 

While  corruption  reigns  in  office, 
Every  knave  and  fool  and  novice, 
For  a  sum  of  filthy  lucre 

Will  betray  his  trust— and  more  : 
They  will  legislate  to  press  you, 
And  in  every  way  distress  you  ; 
Yet  they'll  meet  you  and  caress  you, 

But  they're  traitors  to  the  core. 
They  will  swear  by  all  that's  holy— 

For  your  vote— but  nothing  more. 

Look  toward  the  broad  Atlantic, 
See  a  million  starving,  frantic — 
Bread  or  blood  is  what  they're  asking- 
Blood  or  bread  to  feed  the  poor, 
Begging  bread  for  which  they're  slaving- 
Dangers  on  the  railroad  braving, 
Want  and  hunger  ever  craving, 
Gnawing  deep  into  the  core, 
While  the  railroad  gods  are  basking 
On  the  Long  Branch  sunny  shore  : 
These  are  facts— and  nothing  more. 

Must  we  beg  to  be  in  fetters  ? 
Are  these  railroad  kings  our  betters, 
That  we  must  like  slaves  approach  them, 
While  our  wants  they  still  ignore  ? 


THE   POOR   MAN'S   SOLILOQUY.  179 

No  !    There  must  be  some  reaction  ; 
Something  done  to  crush  this  faction — 
Labor  must  have  satisfaction, 

Though  grim  death  stood  at  our  door. 
Shall  I  tell  you  how  to  get  it — 

How  to  strike  corruption's  core  ? 

Vote  for  tricksters — never  more. 

Oh,  ye  sons  of  toil  and  danger, 
Christ  was  cradled  in  a  manger — 
He  was  poor  and  weak  and  lowly, 

Yet  for  us  the  cross  He  bore  ; 
But  the  rich-robed  fiends  they  tried  Him, 
Persecuted  and  denied  Him, 
And  with  robbers  crucified  Him, 

Just  for  being  Christ— and  poor  ; 
Just  because  he  killed  corruption, 

Jesus  died— and  nothing  more. 

Can  such  beings  ask  for  pardon, 
While  their  hearts  they  ever  harden  ? 
Can  they  ask  for  peace  from  Heaven, 

While  its  laws  they  still  ignore  ? 
No,  by  all  the  hosts  above  us— 
By  the  broken  hearts  that  love  us — 
By  the  tears  of  many  millions 

Of  the  wronged,  down-trodden  poor — 
They  can  never  reach  that  heaven 

Until  hell  is  frozen  o'er, 
Which  the  Keverend  Mr.  Moody 

Tells  us  will  be—  never  more. 


180  THE   POET   SCOUT. 


THE   FIRST  FLOWEK   OF   MAY. 

In  May,  1876,  a  band  of  Sioux  drove  off  fourteen  head  of  our  horses,  and  after 
two  days'  chase  we  regained  seven  of  them  ;  but,  owing  to  the  Indians  having  a 
change  of  horses,  we  failed  to  secure  any  scalps.  Oa  the  first  evening,  after  a 
hard  day's  ride,  we  camped  in  a  pleasant  valley  near  a  cooling  spring  of  water. 
Frank  Smith  (Antelope  Frank,  as  we  called  him)  and  myself  had  ridden  about 
three  miles  further,  in  hopes  of  getting  a  sight  of  the  Indian  camp,  and  it  was  on 
our  return  to  the  valley  mentioned  above,  and  a  v^ni^on  supper,  that  we  laid 
down  to  rest  under  a  spreading  pine,  when  the  incidents  occurred  which  called 
forth  the  following  verses. 

A  DAISY  !  the  first  I  had  seen  in  the  spring, 

Was  peeping  from  under  the  sod  ; 
The  air  was  so  chilly,  the  wind  was  so  cold, 

That  I  fear'd  the  fair  daisy  had  made  rather  bold 
To  ascend  from  the  earth's  warmer  clod. 

Just  then  a  fair  skylark  flew  heavenward  to  sing 
Sweet  anthems,  in  praise  to  his  God. 

How  sweet  to  the  traveller  those  soul-stirring  notes, 

When  weary  with  riding  all  day  ! 
Indeed,  it  was  joy  to  my  comrade  and  me  — 

The  lark  in  the  sky,  and  the  flower  on  the  lea, 
And  our  weariness  soon  passed  away. 

That  night  'round  the  camp-fire  we  tuned  up  our  throats 
And  sang  of  the  first  flower  of  May. 


FAREWELL. 


181 


DEAR  reader,  farewell,  the  affliction  is  o'er — 
Your  powers  of  endurance  astound  rne  ; 

With  my  horse  I  am  off  for  the  trail  once  more, 
Whore  the  wandering  muse  first  found  me. 


A  NEW  BOOK  BY  JO  SI  AH  ALLEN'S 
WIFE. 

SWEET  CICELY.— A  temperance  story  of  the  Josiah  Allen's 
Wife's  Series.  Of  thrilling  interest.  Over  100  illustrations, 
12mo,  cloth  $2.00.  (Ready  Oct.  '85.) 

"Josiah  Allen's  Wife  "  has  always  been  a  shrewd  observer  of 
human  nature  as  it  reveals  itself  in  the  round  of  homely,  every 
day  life,  and  the  keen  sarcasm  and  adroit  humor  with  which 
she  lays  bear  its  fo.bles,  its  weaknesses  and  its  grotesque  out- 
crop'pings  has  rarely,  if  ever,  been  equaled.  The  strong  feature 
of  all  Miss  HoUey's  humor,  is  its  moral  tone.  The  present 
work  will  treat  the  "  temperance  sentiment "  in  new  phase — 
that  of  a  semi-humorous  novel. 

SOME  OPINIONS  OF  "JOSIAH  ALLEN'S  WIFE": 
The  Woman's  Journal,  Boston:  "The  keen  sarcasm,  cheerful 
wit  and  cogent  arguments  of  her  books  have  convinced  thous 
ands  of  the  'folly  of  their  ways,'  for  wit  can  pierce  where 
grave  counsel  fails." 

The  Herald,  New  York:  "  Her  fun  is  not  far-fetched,  but  easy 
and  spontaneous.  She  is  now  witty,  now  pathetic,  yet  ever 
strikingly  original." 

The  Home  Journal,  New  York:  "  She  is  one  of  the  most  origi 
nal  humorists  of  the  day." 

The,  New  Era,  Lancaster,  Pa.:  "Undoubtedly  one  of  the 
truest  humorists.  Nothing  short  of  a  cast-iron  man  can  resist 
the  exquisite,  droll  and  contagious  mirth  of  her  writings." 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  10-12  Dey  Street,  New  York. 


ARCHIBALD  MALMAISON. 

A  New  Novel.  By  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE.  i2mo,  paper,  15  cts.; 
cloth,  extra  paper,  75  cts. 

INDEPENDENT,  N.  Y.  "  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  can  choose  no 
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SON,'  than  the  assurance  that  he  has  at  last  put  forth  astory  which 
reads  as  if  the  manuscript,  written  in  his  father's  indecipherable 
handwriting  and  signed  'Nathaniel  Hawthorne,'  had  lain  shut  into 
a  desk  for  twenty-five  years,  to  be  only  just  now  pulled  out  and 
printed.  It  is  a  masterful  romance  ;  short,  compressed,  terribly 
dramatic  in  its  important  situations,  based  upon  a  psychologic 
idea  as  weird  and  susceptible  of  startling  treatment  as  possible. 
It  is  a  book  to  be  read  through  in  two  hours,  but  to  dwell  in  the 
memory  forever.  The  employment  of  the  central  theme  and  the 
literary  conduct  of  the  plot  is  nearly  beyond  criticism." 

X.  H.  STODDARD,  7AT  NEW  YORK  MAIL  AND  EXPRESS. 
"  !'he  climax  is  so  terrible,  as  the  London  Times  has  pointed  out, 
and  so  dramatic  in  its  intensity,  that  it  is  impossible  to  class  it 
with  any  situation  of  moderji  fiction.  .  .  Mr.  Hawthorne  is 
clearly  and  easily  the  first  of  living  romancers." 

THE  LONDON  TIMES.  "  After  perusal  of  this  weird,  fantastic 
tale  (Archibald  Malmaison),  it  must  be  admitted  that  upon  the 
shoulders  of  Julian  Hawthorne  has  descended  in  no  small  degree 
the  mantle  of  his  more  illustrious  father.  The  climax  is  so  terrible, 
and  so  dramatic  in  its  intensity,  that  it  is  impossible  to  cla?s  it 
with  any  situation  of  modern  fiction.  There  is  much  psychologi 
cal  ingenuity  shown  in  some  of  the  more  subtle  touches  that  lend 
an  air  of  reality  to  this  wild  romance." 

THE  LONDON  GLOBE.  " '  Archibald  Malmaison  '  is  one  of  the 
most  daring  attempts  to  set  the  wildest  fancy  masquerading  in  the 
cloak  of  science,  which  has  ever,  perhaps  been  made.  Mr.  Haw 
thorne  has  managed  to  combine  the  almost  perfect  construction  of 
a  typical  French  novelist,  with  a  more  than  typically  German 
power  of  conception." 

THE  ACADEMY,  •'  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  a  more  powerful  imagin 
ation  than  any  contemporary  writer  of  fiction.  He  has  the  very 
uncommon  gift  of  taking  hold  of  the  reader's  attention  at  once, 
and  the  still  more  uncommon  gift  of  maintaining  his  grasp  when  it 
is  fixed." 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  12  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  RACHEL. 

A  New  Novel.  By  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE.  i2mo,  paper,  250.; 
cloth,  $i. 

CHRISTIAN  UNION,  N.  Y.  "  Probably  no  American  has  a  more 
devoted  constituency  of  readers  than  Mr.  Edward  Everett  Hale, 
and  to  all  these  his  latest  s:ory,  'The  Fortunes  of  Rachel,'  will 
bring  genuine  pleasure.  Mr.  Hale  is  emphatically  a  natural 
writer;  he  loves  to  interpret  common  things  and  to  deal  with  aver 
age  persons.  He  does  this  with  such  insight,  with  such  noble 
conception  of  life  and  of  his  work,  that  he  discovers  that  profound 
interest  which  belongs  to  the  humblest  as  truly  as  to  the  most 
brilliant  forms  of  life.  .  .  .  This  story  is  a  thoroughly  Ameri 
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full  of  stimulating  thought;  it  is  wholesome  and  elevating.'' 

BOSTON  JOURNAL,  "  The  virtue  of  the  book  is  the  healthful, 
encouraging,  kindly  spirit  which  prevades  it,  and  which  will  help 
one  to  battle  with  adverse  circumstances,  as  indeed,  all  Mr.  Hale's 
stories  have  helped." 

NEW  YORK  JOURNAL  OF  COMMERCE.  "A  pnre'y 
American  story,  original  all  through,  and  Rachel  is  one  of  the 
pleasantest  and  most  satisfactory  of  heroines.  She  is  a  girl  of  the 
soil,  unspoiled  by  foreign  travels  and  conventionalites.  After 
suneiiing  on  romances  whose  =cenes  are  laid  abroad,  it  is  delight 
ful  to  come  across  a  healthy  home  product  like  this." 

RUTHERFORD. 

A  New  Novel.     By  EDGAR  FAWCETT.    Author  rf'An  Ambitious 

Woman,"  "A  Gentleman  of  Leisure,"  A  Hopeless  Case," 

"  Tinkling  Cymbals"   etc.     i2mo,  paper,  25  cts; 

cloth,  extra  paper,  $1.00. 

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ten.  .  .  Rutherford  is  powerful  and  will  contribute  much  to 
the  reputation  of  its  clever  author." 

SAT.  EVENING  GAZETTE,  Boston.  "This  story  evinces  grace 
as  well  as  facility  of  style,  is  effectively  told  throughout,  and  in 
its  plot  and  character*,  is  decidedly  interesting.  The  sympathies 
of  the  reader  are  keenly  enlisted  for  two  of  the  characters  who  have 
been  reduced  from  wealth  to  poverty,  and  the  relation  of  their  ex 
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book  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  of  Mr.  Fawcett's  novels." 

NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE.  "  Mr.  Fawcett's  story.  '  Rutherford,' 
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motive  which  is  not  only  tragical,  but  impressive.  .  .  .  It  is 
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able  life  and  touches  of  satire." 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  12  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


MEMORIE  AND  RIME. 

A  Book  of  Poems,  Sketches,  Reminiscences.    By  JOAQUIN  MILLER. 
121110  paper,  25  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00. 

A  series  of  charming  sketches  of  travel,  stories  of  Western  life, 
poems,  and  reminiscences  of  famous  men  the  author  has  known. 
Mr.  Miller  has  a  great  advantage  over  most  writers,  in  that  his 
material  has  been  furnished  by  his  own  romantic  and  adventurous 
life.  There  is  a  glow  of  poetic  fervor  in  all  his  writings  that 
kindles  the  reader's  interest  irresistably. 

ST.  LOUIS  OBSERVER.  '•  Full  of  the  flavor  and  freshness  of 
the  West.  .  .  Thoroughly  American  in  spirit  and  tone. 
His  verse  is  distinctly  national;  it  has  all  the  breadth  and 
sweep  of  the  immense  prairies  and  rugged  uplands  of  the  west 
ern  half  of  the  continent.  It  is  strong  in  thought,  powerful  in 
diction." 

BOSTON  GAZETTE.  "  The  volume  in  its  humor,  its  pathos, 
and  its  satire,  is  in  Mr.  Miller's  best  vein  and  the  poems  are 
as  spirited  as  any  he  has  written." 

CHRISTIAN  INTELLIGENCER  (N.  K).  "The  author  is  widely 
known  as  one  of  the  most  entertaining  writers  of  the  present 
day.  This  volume  is  bright  and  breezy;  humor  and  pathos  being 


happily  blended,' 


49;  or,  THE  GOLD  SEEKER  of  the  SIERRAS. 

A  volume  of  Western  Stories.    By  JOAQUIN  MILLER,    aamopaper, 

15  cts.;  cloth,  75  cts. 

INTER-OCEAN,  CHICAGO.  "No writer  has  so  vividly  and 
truthfully  pictured  the  wild  Western  life  upon  the  plains  and  in 
the  mining  camps,  as  has  Mr.  Miller.  He  hns  studied  its  char 
acters  and  learned  well  his  lessons,  and  when  they  stc-.nd  out 
upon  the  canvass  they  seem  to  be  real,  and  not  fancy  sketches. 
This  book  abounds  in  life-like  incidents  and  escapades,  such  as 
every  miner's  boy  has  seen.  It  abounds  in  strong  dramatic 
situations,  swift  alternations  between  pathos  and  humor,  and 
delicate  poetic  interpretations  of  nature." 

SATURDA  Y  EVENING  GAZETTE,  BOSTON.  «  The  vigor, 
picturesqueness,  strength  and  genuine  feeling  with  which  the 
story  is  told,  impresses  upon  the  reader  an  irresistable  charm." 

THE  LONDON  GLOBE.  "To  follow  him  is  like  following 
a  keen,  swift  rider,  who  rides  eagerly,  it  matters  not  whither, 
and  who  attracts  us  by  a  wild  grace  and  a  beautiful  skill  as  he 
rushes  through  scenes  of  luxuriant  loveliness  that  would  cause  a 
less  impetuous  horseman  to  pause  and  linger." 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  la  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


MUMU,  AND  THE  DIAR  Y  OF  A  SUPER- 
FLUOUS  MAN. 

Two  powerful  Novels,  descriptive  of  Serf  and   upper-class  life  in 

Russia.     By  IVAN  TURGENIEFF.    In  one  volume.    12010, 

paper,  15  cts.;  cloth,  extra  paper,  75  cts. 

N.  Y.  TRIBUNE.  "His  characters  are  vital  ;  they  suffer  with  a 
pathos  that  irresistably  touches  the  reader  to  sympathy.  Those 
who  would  write  in  the  same  vein  get  merely  his  admirable  man 
ner,  full  of  reserve,  of  self-restraint,  of  joyless  patience;  but 
while  under  this  surface  with  Turgenieff  lie  throbbing  arteries 
and  quivering  fle«h,  his  imitators  offer  us  nothing  more  than  lay 
figures  in  whose  fortunes  it  is  impossible  totake  any  lively  interest. 
They  represent  before  us  only  poor  phases  of  modern  society, 
while  Turgenieff  has  explained  to  us  a  nation  and  shown  the  play 
of  emotions  that  are  as  old  as  the  world  and  as  new  as  the  hour  in 
which  they  were  born." 

LITERARY  WORLD,  Boston.  "These  two  stories  are  unques 
tionably  to  be  ranked  among  their  author's  masterpieces. 
'  Mumu  '  will  bear  a  great  amount  of  study ;  it  marks  out  a  whole 
method  in  fiction.'* 

LIPPINCOTT S  MAGAZINE,  Phila.  "There  are  some  half  dozen 
of  Turgenieff's  short  stories  absolutely  perfect  each  in  its  way, 
but  none,  perhaps,  quite  so  exquisitely  as  'Mumu'  shows  the 
great  artist's  power  to  transfigure  to  our  eyes  the  tenderness, 
passion,  agonies,  which  lie  beyond  speech  and  almost  beyond 
sign,  in  tl.e  silent  heart  of  a  strong,  simple  man." 


HIMSELF  AGAIN. 

A  New  Novel.  By  J.  C.  GOLDSMITH.  i2mo,  paper,  25  cts.;  cloth, 
extra  paper,  $1.00. 

THE  BOSTON  GLOBE.  "  Its  peculiar  qualities  are  its  delinea 
tions  of  eccentric  character  which  is  notably  free  and  bold,  and 
its  familiarity  with  many  kinds  of  present  American  life  and  man 
ners,  and  its  original  realistic  treatment.  .  .  Beneath  the 
sprightly  dash  with  which  the  story  is  outlined  and  filled,  there  is 
conscious  strong  power.  It  is  finely  written,  and  of  decided 
merit." 

THE  EVENING  POST,  HARTFORD.  ••  Unlike  most  novels,  the 
first  chapters  of  this  remarkable  story  are  the  weakest.  But  let 
the  reader  persevere  and  he  will  find  opened  to  him  a  wonderful 
world  of  novel  and  interesting  characters,  a  valuable  and  unique 
philosophy,  and  an  almost  unsurpassed  background  of  American 
city  and  country  scenery." 

BOSTON  AD  VERTISER.  "  The  writer  displays  more  than  aver 
age  insight  into  the  workings  of  human  nature,  and  the  naturalness 
of  his  character-drawing  is  no  doubt  the  secret  of  the  special 
attraction  that  lies  in  the  book." 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  12  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


THE  HO  YT- WARD  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  PRAC 
TICAL  QUOTATIONS. 

Prose  and  Poetry.    Nearly  20,000  Quotations  and  50,000  lines  of 
Concordance. 

It  contains  the  celebrated  quotations  and  all  the  useful  Proverbs 
and  Mottoes  from  the  English,  Latin,  French,  German,  Italian, 
Spanish  and  Portuguese,  classified  according  to  subjects.  Latin 
Law  Terms  and  Phrases,  Legal  Maxims,  etc.  (all  with  translations). 

It  has  a  vast  concordance  of  nearly  50,000  lines,  by  which  any 
quotation  of  note  may  at  once  be  four* d  and  traced  to  its  source.  It 
is  to  quotations  what  Young's  or  (Jruden's  Concordance  is  to  the 
Bible. 

Its  Table  of  Contents:  Index  of  Authors,  giving  date  of  birth, 
nativity,  etc.;  Topical  Index  with  Cross  References,  Index  of  Sub . 
jects,  Index  of  Translation,  together  with  its  immense  Concordance 
and  many  other  features  desirable  in  a  work  of  reference,  combine 
to  make  this  Cyclopaedia  what  it  is, 

THE  ONLY  STANDARD  BOOK  OF  QUOTATIONS. 

Invaluable  to  the  Statesman,  Lawyer  Editor,  Public  Speaker, 
Teacher  or  General  Reader. 


NOAH  PORTER,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  Pres.  Yale  College.     "It  will 
be  a  help  and  a  pleasure  to  m^ny." 

HON.  SAMUEL    %   RANDALL,    WASHINGTON.     "The 
best  book  of  quotations  which  I  have  seen." 

GEO.  F.  EDMUNDS,  U.  S.  SENATOR.    ••  It  is  the  most  com 
plete  and  best  work  of  the  kind  w.ih  which  I  am  acquainted." 

HON.  ABRAM  S.  HEWITT.    "  The  completeness  of  its  indices 
is  simply  astonishing." 

HON.  F.  T.  FRELINGHUYSEN,  Secretary  of  State.      "  Am 
much  pl-eased  with  the  Cyclopaedia  of  Quotations." 

HENRY  WARD  B  EEC  HER.      "Good  all  the  way  through, 
especially  the  proverbs  of  all  nations." 

HENR  Y  W.  LONGFELLO  W.    "  Can  hardly  fail  to  be  a  very 
successful  and  favorite  volume." 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS.    "Its  variety  and  fullness    and  the 
completeness  of  its  index  gives  it  rare  value  to  the  scholar." 

Poyal  octavo,  over  900  pp,  Cloth,  $5.00;  Sheep,  $6.50:  Fancy 
Cloth,  Extra  Gilt,  $7.50;  Half  Morocco,  Gilt,  $8.00;  Full  Morocco, 
Extra  Finish  and  Gilt,  $10.00. 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  10  &  la  Dey  St.,  N.  Y. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD 


INTER-LIBRARY 
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ftUG  1  9  1965 


SEP  27  1939 


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LD  21A-60m.4,'64 
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G«oeral  Library 

Inivetsity  of  California 

Berkeley 


YC   M654 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


I 


M41942 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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